


New Rules

by Kaelas, yamikuronue



Series: Real Hotheads of Kirkwall [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, BDSM, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Bethany and Carver Hawke Live, Body Image, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cyberpunk, Divorce, Dom/sub, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Family Feels, Found Family, Happy Ending, Hawke (Dragon Age) Has a Twin, Hospitalization, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mages vs. Templars, Magitech, Magitek, Medication, Modern Thedas, Multi, Non-Sexual Submission, Police, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Scared Straight, Scars, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Submission, Templars, Trans Carver Hawke, Unethical Experimentation, Varric Tethras Is So Done, disaster bisexual, fast bikes vroom vroom!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2019-12-25 20:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 162,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18268409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaelas/pseuds/Kaelas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamikuronue/pseuds/yamikuronue
Summary: Garrett Hawke is what they call a "disaster bi": a hot mess on two legs, drinking, racing, and fucking his way through Kirkwall. He can get away with it; his father, Malcolm Hawke, is a legend, the inventor of the world's only magitek smartphone and CEO of the Amell Corporation. But this time he's gone too far. For his own good -- and for the good of the family -- Malcolm is placing his fate in the hands of Mals' best friend, Varric Tethras. If he can stick to the new rules, he might find himself back on the straight and narrow; if not, he's sure to be... punished.Modern AU with BDSM themes and complicated worldbuilding. Chapter count is exact, first draft is finished.





	1. Chapter 1

_I keep pushin' forwards, but he keeps pullin' me backwards_  
_Nowhere to turn, (nowhere to turn)_  
_Now I'm standin' back from it, I finally see the pattern_  
_I never learn, (I never learn)_  
_But my love (my love), he doesn't love me_  
_So I tell myself, I tell myself_  
_I do, I do, I do_

* * *

Varric Thedas, once of Clan Tethras, never forgets his debts. One day, that will make him the most qualified to tell the story of Malcolm Hawke and his four children; for now, he keeps his cards close to the chest, collecting information but never distributing it.

Most would begin a biography of Malcolm and his four children with his rise to fame. They would start with the impact of his work, the changes he made on an already recently changed world thanks to the invention of the personal computer. Not even Varric knows exactly how Malcolm, darling of the Amell corporation, produces his magitek devices, as the process is a closely guarded secret. But it _is_ known that the devices are powered by the Fade -- meaning they never, ever, run out of battery or lose signal. Out of nowhere, Apple is outdated, obsolete; everyone wants Amell phones, computers, devices. Malcolm had been on the verge of running off with his fiance, Leandra Amell; overnight he found himself accepted by her family instead, welcome to merge his "knife-ear" blood with her "pure", "superior" stock.

But, the real story, the story worth sharing, started one afternoon at the International Technology, Training and Trade Conference, known far and wide as I3TC. Only ten years running, the bi-annual event was nevertheless one of the most sought after places to met, mingle and show off new inventions, programs, and start-ups. Getting a coveted speaking engagement here can elevate a newcomer to untold heights- or break them if they fumble it. Debuting a new invention here successfully guarantees it'll at least sell strong for the first year of its run. Networking opportunities abound and entire conglomerates are bought and sold during the week-long event. Solid rumors of the goings on are worth livelihoods and lives. 

When _the_ Malcolm Hawke, fiance of Leandra Amell, leaves a full two days early in order to get a Shirén, one born to the stone and science, out of China and to Free Carribean, where slavery is illegal (mostly), the entire world hears about it within hours. Anyone else would have likely been ruined forever, not only for skipping out on his part in the closing speeches, but also for taking what some would say was Fractal Facets Limited's property with him. Not a major company no, but they had just patented two very impressive though not all that practical advances in cybernetic miniaturization, and a Chinese company, which means that the Dwarven Clans could have gotten involved. Instead, Fractal Facets... simply vanished. As did the young dwarf that Malcolm rescued shortly after reaching Haiti.

It was an international scandal. China, the bastion of the Clans of Stone, major exporter of technology, is the biggest rival to the Unitum Provincias, the home of the Church ever since the Papal Seat moved to the District of Columbia. Both were livid -- the one because Malcolm flaunted their authority and stole one of their kinsmen, the other because he was a Mage performing blatantly illegal actions in public. The third largest world power, the Tevinter Imperium in South America, remained officially neutral; one would imagine they'd approve only because the Church disapproved, as the two powers had clashed repeatedly over the ethics of blood magic over the years. The fourth, Russia, offered him safe passage -- Lyrium, their largest export, was essential in Malcolm's manufacturing process.

Varric took the second life Malcolm gave him, along with the handful of money, and threw himself into making it count. Two years later, Varric showed up on the elf's doorstep with a suitcase filled with money- ten times the amount Malcolm had given him. It had taken Malcolm a few months to work his magic, but eventually Varric started to accept that Malcolm didn't see there being a debt between the two of them. By the end of the year, Amell MagiTech had signed StoneSure Transport to ship some of their less valuable goods. A decade later and StoneSure became the sole transport company for Amell MagiTech. In the years since, StoneSure has scaled up to dozens of valuable clients, though AMT remains their principal concern. The sole owner and CEO is known for being reclusive, talented and enforcing brutally high work standards on both his company and himself. 

He's also Malcolm's best friend- and Malcolm is Varric's only friend. Real friend anyway. Which sometimes leads to some really strange moments...

* * *

"This is a hundred and thirty year old scotch," Varric observes blandly, staring at the bottle. "Why do you feel the need to ply me with a drink older than both of us doubled for a 'small favor, nothing much really?'"

_Because it isn't a small favor, not really._ Once upon a time, Malcolm's life had been his magitech gadgets. He'd been young and hungry, desperate to prove himself, desperate to make a life for his lady so they wouldn't be stuck on the streets like he'd been as a lad. His parents had been Catholic; they'd sent him for re-education at one of the Circle camps, and he'd broken free, proven himself stronger than they expected. He'd won his freedom at the cost of stability, of his home and his family and everything he'd ever known -- but Malcolm Hawke was a survivor, and he'd rebuilt his life better and stronger since then.

Now, in his fifties, he is coming to realize that his life's work has changed. No longer is it his internationally famous business, his patents, his fame and his money. Now, his life's work is his children. And Malcolm's children are... 

Bethany is doing well. Carver was doing much better on his hormone treatments than he had been before, when they thought he was a girl. Both of them are bright, promising young students, on the verge of graduating from the very same private boarding school Leandra and Gamlen attended. And Marian is doing alright -- struggling a little, but it's mostly due to the amount she's taking on, with her internships, world travels, and full courseload. She'll manage, and scale back a little next year, learning her limits.

But Garrett...

"You know me," says Malcolm, with a warm smile. "Generous to a fault." 

Varric is one of the few friends Malcolm didn't earn with his money and his wits; his wife, Leandra, is another, but she was less of a confidant and more of a conquest. With Varric, he knows how deep the bonds of gratitude and friendship run, knows nothing can sunder the foundation they've laid. With Varric, he can admit the truth. 

"Besides, the favor might be a wee bit larger than advertised..."

Varric snorts. _Mal, you're a genius with tech and magic beyond what anyone can measure. You've a gift with money, with speeches and leadership... but crack Stone if you're not shite at bluffing,_ he thinks to himself. "Go on," the dwarf says, taking a sip of his very nice scotch without breaking eye contact. He's going to say yes to whatever it is, Varric already knows that. Anything this important to Malcolm is something that Varric could never refuse his best friend. 

"It's nothing too outlandish," the mage begins, meaning, _it's nothing illegal, nothing as elaborate as the favors you've asked me in the past_. "You remember my eldest son, Garrett?" he asks, swirling his drink.

"No Mal, I've completely forgotten the existence of your eldest child," Varric says in an entirely sincere tone of voice. "I mean, who?"

Malcolm throws his head back and laughs, a hearty, honest laugh. This is one of the things he likes most about his best friend: the jokes, the way he can entirely deadpan his way through an absurd statement. Malcolm always laughs, and often slugs him in the shoulder appreciatively; tonight he does not, only for the sake of the drinks they're both holding. "But seriously -- Garrett's been... advised to take a semester off school, for his health."

'For his health' is a loaded phrase here -- and so is 'advised', not that Malcolm will admit that to even his best friend unless hard pressed. A week prior, the school had called to advise their biggest donor that while his son was passing, technically, every one of his classes, he might not want to advertise his GPA just yet. Nor did the school wish to draw any conclusions from the fact that Garrett's homework quality had taken a nosedive after his twin sister Marian went on an expedition to Tevinter; after all, he might just be lonely, missing his twin sister. It doesn't have to mean anything. 

And really, the first three disciplinary strikes against his conduct were just boyish mistakes, hardly anything to hold against the son of one of their biggest donors. That meant he had a whole strike left on their three strike policy -- and the slate would be wiped clean at the end of the year. "He just needs some time to adjust, to live up to his potential," the dean had advised. "Perhaps an internship, so he can apply some of his talents in the real world?"

Malcolm could read between the lines: if Garrett enrolled for the Spring semester without making serious changes, he was going to flunk out of school -- if he didn't get expelled for other reasons first. Nobody wanted that, not Malcolm, not the dean, and certainly not Garrett.

At least... Malcolm _hopes_ his son doesn't wish to be expelled. 

"I thought an internship with you might be just the thing. Something light, part-time work -- he's got a lot of extracurriculars to keep up with. But something to give his day structure, you know? Give him a good grounding in reality."

The Dwarf frowns. _For his health (sick/stress/other)? And with the amount they charge (fucking ridiculous), the school recommending him to take time off? Yeah that's not good. Mal would have said prior to now if he was actually sick or something (medical connections/experts known?) so..._

Varric doesn't know Garret as well as the other three kids to be honest. Marian is brilliant, and has managed to slip into various discussions over the years between Varric and Malcolm on all sorts of topics, impressing them both. No real surprise how she's doing these days. Bethany is well on her way to being an actress- stage most likely rather than movie, but a shared love of stories had given them a bond of sorts. Carver is a good kid, grateful how indifferent Varric has been to his changing genders if nothing else. Garrett... _Always just a little too wild (careless) for me. No discipline and not enough gratitude for the life he was given. The family he was blessed with._

"Drugs?" Varric asks quietly, his tone no longer deadpan nor joking. The subject is a loaded one, given that Malcolm regularly diverts some of his high-grade, refined lyrium from his lab to Varric so the UnClanned dwarf can avoid using street lyrium. 

The People of Stone, the so-called Dwarves, the Dreamless, have upgraded their ancestral silicate crystals, replacing them with microchips -- a move derided by their parents, but even the elders can't argue with the results. Microchips are a hundred times more compact, faster, and safer than the crystals engraved with runes, and all without requiring the centuries of Shinto baggage that came along with their traditional implantation ceremonies. Only the Dreamless can use silica, which is why the Dwarves aren't sharing its secrets: the Church would be happy to start Tranquil-ing people at birth to implant them if they only knew how.

Even the best cybernetics require at least a few grams of lyrium to keep functional every month. And what Varric has is beyond the best. If Garrett's begun using the substance to enhance his power as a mage...

"Maker, I hope not." For a moment, the friendly mask slips, giving Varric the same courtesy he's shown the older man; Mal's voice is a harsh whisper, half prayer and half damnation. He takes a sip, trying to smooth out his emotions, before he continues.

"To be honest, I don't know. I don't know what the problem is. Garrett's just as smart as his twin -- they used to compete, trying to outdo each other, prove they were the better mage. But now... I don't recognize him anymore. Maybe it's drugs. Maybe I should be sending him to a rehab instead of you. But he won't let me in. He says he's doing fine, even though I can tell he's struggling. He won't let me in -- how can I fix it if he won't let me in?"

Varric nods, clearly understanding. Malcolm hadn't sent Varric off with that loan as his first choice; he'd wanted to help more, but Varric had refused. He'd needed to fight his own way free for a bit.

_So maybe drugs. Hell. Yes drugs but maybe not just drugs, or not mostly drugs. If the boy (he's twenty-two, hardly a boy) isn't at least getting plastered on the reg, I'd be deeply shocked._ "An internship. What... what skills does he have?" _Can't even recall what he's studying..._

Malcolm snorts. "He's a mage. What else? He's brilliant. He's good with numbers, if you need a numbers guy. Keen head for people, if you need someone to oversee a project. He hasn't picked a specialty yet, except to be in the School of Magic, so I'm sure whatever you have he'll do well in."

_So none, not really. Some talent, maybe some skills, no ability to use either. Great._ "I can... interview him," Varric offers after a moment. "Maybe put him on a rotating tour of the departments, see if he... clicks anywhere." _Limit the damage._

"Thank you, old friend," says Malcolm warmly. "I'm certain you won't regret it. Garrett's a fine lad. I'm sure he'll do wonderfully."

* * *

The interview is set for 10am sharp, giving Varric an hour and a half before he has to get to his next appointment -- but he'd prefer to be wrapped up inside of an hour, so he has time to go over the manifests before the quarterly meeting at 1. This should be more than enough time; it's not as though the boy is a stranger, and his resume is... sparse, and clearly written by his twin. 

So when Garrett saunters in at _Ten Forty Five_ , pale and swaying a bit, clearly not hungover but in fact still drunk, Varric gets his first impression of the real Garrett Hawke, outside of his father's approval.

He'd meant to be on time, he really did. But the night before had been Bela's last night in town, and he could hardly disappoint her, not when she comes into town so rarely. He'd intended to beg off early, get some sleep, but before he could think twice it was gone midnight, and then it was four in the morning. There's no point going to bed at four, not when you have to be up the next day; it's better to power through and nap later. So he'd kept up, and that meant still drinking so he'd be in peak condition. This was how he'd gotten through finals, after all. He was confident in his ability to pretend to be sober after a night of parting. And then the Uber was late, and the damn driver was so slow, sticking to the speed limit...

"Ho, Varric!" he says, swaying his way into the room. "Long time no see. How's the, ah, whatever it was?"

Varric closes the folder holding the manifests and slides it to the side. Not like he was going to just sit there and wait. "Job interview? Not going that great," Varric says coldly. He doesn't rise from behind the desk, nor wave, just studies the younger man steadily. 

"Have a seat." Not a request. _Nearly an hour (forty-six minutes) late, drunk, exhausted, lipstick on the bottom hem of his shirt (poorly tucked), not carrying a copy of his resume (or even something to take notes in) and a thoroughly unprofessional greeting. If your father was anyone, anyone, other than Mal..._ Not looking away or changing his expression, he uses his internal uplink to command the window blinds to open twenty percent.

Garrett hisses slightly as the brilliant morning sun flashes in his eyes. Still, he saunters to the chair, spinning it around with one hand before draping himself across it, legs spread wide, arm laid along the back of the chair. "So. What's this about, what's-- what's the job look like?" he asks, casually, tilting his head back to get the sun out of his eyes. "Father was adamant I take it, but I'm still undecided."

"If by adamant you mean, considering rehab, then yes, I suppose he is." Varric's expression doesn't change during all of this, even though he smiles inwardly at the hiss. "As for the job... right now, I think the best fit for you is the exit. You've gotten three changes to impress me so far and you've blown each and every one. Might want to reconsider your strategy."

Now the lad sits up, startled. "What? But we've only just begun -- how could I have failed so badly already?"

"You're late, you're drunk and you've arrogance bordering on farcical," Varric says bluntly, a faint flicker of curiosity at his reaction forming.

"Only a little," he protests, settling back into his chair. "I'm hardly _drunk_. Just a bit buzzed from the night."

"So if I called in a med tech to do a blood analysis..."

"Of course I'd pass," he says, waving a hand. _I'd never let them take the blood, but a bluff's better than letting him get one over on me._ "It's just a little holdover. Nothing much."

Varric hums nocommitedly. "And being late?"

"The Uber got lost, I had to call a second, and he drove so slowly -- I could have made the time up, but I didn't have my car, you see," begins Garrett, waving his hand again. "Entirely not my fault."

Varric nods absently, attention having drifted to his computer, which he again used his uplink to control. "Uber's logs show you has having called for a ride at nine fifteen. It's thirty-five minutes to here, so you budgeted ten minutes for the car to arrive and to make your way from my doorstep to my office?" He shakes his head. "Even if the first had been on time, you'd have been at least five minutes late, best case."

Garrett scowls. _I forgot he's one of those Dwarves -- but even then, did he hack Uber? That's a little much for an interview._ "Those Maps times are never accurate. I could do it in twenty."

"You could do it in half the time," Varric says blandly, implications clear.

"Sure," he says easily. "They pad, for legal reasons. So you don't sue if you're late. I never pay the estimates mind."

"Didn't use Uber's map- used CartoGraph's." _Which is what I use to plan logistics for my company._ "So why not drive yourself, if you're so much better at it?"

"Didn't have my bike -- I wasn't at home." He frowns, then, realizing that yes, Varric must have hacked Uber -- otherwise he'd have calculated the time from Garrett's flat, not the hotel with the after-afterparty he and the lovely Bela were indulging in.

"Which brings us to you being drunk and wearing yesterday's clothing," Varric notes.

"Naw," he says, shaking his head. "These are last _night's_ clothing. I definitely changed since yesterday proper." Varric studies Garrett silently, letting him sit there and dwell on the horseshit he just let escape his mouth -- which only serves to encourage the boy. "And as I said, I'm hardly drunk," he continues. "Only a little tipsy, after all. A bit buzzed. A mite... mashed," he adds, chuckling. "Fully functional and ready to get to it."

"Really?" Varric asks mildly. "So if I assigned you to make a delivery, right now, and you got pulled over, the cop's breath-analyzer wouldn't register you as over the legal limit? Which, for a logistics company driver, is point oh three? And company policy says is point oh one?"

"You can't hold me to a standard you never disclosed," he argues. "But I'd pass the legal limit, sure." _Even if I have to bamboozle the machinery -- or the cop._

_Always has a answer,_ thinks Varric. _Suppose that's not nothing_. "Fine." He leans in, his expression partially obscured by the light coming in behind him. "One last question, your last chance to impress me. And this is it, by the way, pass or fail right now. Now is the time for honesty. I can't really blame you for the shit you've been shoveling this whole time- trying to cover for a fuck-up is only natural. But not right now. Not for this question:

"Why?

"Not why should I hire you, I'll decide that myself. Why are you here? Why did you agree to come here and work for me, when you have to know my reputation, have to have heard the standards and demands I put on my company and everyone in it, from me to the most trivial of subcontractor. Why are you here?"

Garrett sits back, frowning slightly to himself. He could point out that he didn't actually know, that he thought of the dwarf as Uncle Varric and not Mr Thedas, CEO hardass, but he knew it wouldn't get him far. _Fair doesn't come into it -- what lets you win this?_

He knew what. It was degrading, but then , there was nobody around to see, was there? He has to appeal to Uncle Varric, his godfather, his father's best friend. So he lowers his head, worrying at his lower lip, and did his best to sound like his twin sister: "My father. He hasn't been proud if me in years -- hasn't had cause to be. He told me this was my last chance and I can't... I can't let him down again."

Varric studies the boy's face, frowning. _Ring of truth there... Not as much as I'd like but... Maybe more than he thinks_. "If you really mean that, then maybe there's still some hope for you. Alright. Your resume is shit, light and outdated. What can you do?"

_Drink, fuck, and race_. "I'm a decent mage, and I got top marks in Debate," he adds, not mentioning he hasn't been to debate club since high school.

"Must have missed that when I looked over your transcripts," Varric says blandly. "Alright, we'll just have to... shuffle you until you fit somewhere."

"Thank you, sir. You won't regret this." Looks like the kid remembered his manners finally; better late than never.

"About two hours late for that... but maybe you can change my mind," Varric says bluntly. "Honestly? I doubt it. But I've been surprised before, sometimes even pleasantly. You want to impress your dad, make him proud? Prove me wrong."

* * *

His job was to start on Monday at 8am, on the dot -- "if you're even a minute late, you're fired", Varric had said, and Garrett had nodded, promising internally to prove the fucker wrong about him.

It's unsurprising, then, if disappointing, when he's not in the building by 8:05. 

The head of security radios up to him, letting him know that Garrett's arrived, and that he's held him at security, as ordered if the boy turns up late. But the kid is insisting that if they just check the tapes, they'll see it's not his fault. 

And, as Varric checks the security feed... it isn't. He arrived at 7:45, carrying a paper tray with two large coffees in it; he'd parked his motorcycle in the nearest open space, which had been fine until he got almost to the doors and Mrs Bertrasi tried to park in her assigned space. She'd correlated his jacket and his bike and nearly run him over, pulling up behind him to shout at him. That had taken ten minutes, until finally, staring at his watch in horror, Garrett had put the coffees down, gone to his bike, physically lifted it out of the way, and walked it to drop it in a loading bay so she could get by.

When he'd gone for the coffees, a security officer had come over to scold him for leaving his bike there. He'd looked on the verge of tears, but he'd thrust the coffees at the man, grabbed his bike, raced it up to the next floor, come back down the lift, taken the coffees, and slipped in the door at 7:59.

From the interior camera, Varric can see him filling out paperwork for a visitor's badge, about to be perhaps a minute late. That's when Katie, one of the interns, comes in on the verge of tears. Garrett put the coffees down again to console her, and the two of them went out to the parking lot once more, looking for Katie's keys until 8:06, at which point he was then free to walk into the lobby -- right into the head of security, who told him he's late, no can do.

A moment later, a metallic and overly deep voice sounds from a nearby speaker. "See Mister Hawke to his assignment." The voice is almost Varric's, but with the modifications that come from having been sent from an implant and then turned into audio from an actual computer. Evidently Varric's tower is almost as tech-riddled as a dwarven Clan-home. The security guard seems startled at the declaration but doesn't dispute the order from on deep, taking the slightly undercover Mister 'Gary Hawke' to met with Anna. A junior clerk that's been here for a year or so, Anna has been assigned to give Garret the full tour, both of the tower and basements but also the employee handbook.

An hour into his torturous study session- evidently there are actual quizzes he needs to pass on the damn book- some nameless intern delivers a file to Garrett. Inside is a single sheet of paper with Varric's letterhead.

>   
>  As you can see, I decided not to fault you for your morning. The following is an after-action analysis, with recommendations.  
>  Fifteen minutes is sufficient, even generous, for a normal workday. For a first day, a half hour is suggested to allow for getting lost, finding parking and filling out any last minute forms.
> 
> \- The courtesy of bringing coffee was well done, as was your willingness to sacrifice any good will such might gain from your supervisor of the day in order to calm Intern Katie. (In addition, it is of note that you rode your motorcycle to work while carrying those coffees.)  
>  \- As you seem unfamiliar with them, please take special note of Section 3-11 in the handbook, re Parking Complex Rules. Mistakes out of ignorance are forgivable, but only once.  
>  \- Per your dispute with Mrs Bertrasi. She is very contrary and stubborn- given your limited time and rigid deadline, it would have been better to simply acceed the agreement- or just walk away- and move your bike in the first moment. However, it is to your credit that you lasted ten minutes against a senior member of the legal team. Perhaps your comment about Debate club deserves further consideration.  
>  \- Based on specs, your bike weighs roughly 285lbs. Did you use magic to carry it or was that purely physical?  
>  \- You did the right thing helping Intern Katie. That alone would have gotten you in today.  
> 

The difference is slight, nearly imperceptible -- Varric wouldn't see it if he didn't have someone entering the test results to be graded by his algorithms as soon as Garrett finishes (standard procedure for mages, don't let them touch the computer). But after he reads the note, Garrett does ever so slightly better on his next quiz than the ones previous.

* * *

"Gary", just a regular old mage, nothing special here, is first sent to shadow Anna in the general assistant pool. This doesn't do so well; he answers the phones for about an hour before missing his first one because he was at the water cooler having a lively conversation with Keith, another intern. His notes are decent until he gets bored; Varric is shown a detailed hand-written outline of the first ten minutes of a meeting with a wonderful portrait of Hashimoto, head of logistics and twice Garrett's age, sketched on the bottom. By the end of the week, however, Anna hasn't issued so much as an official written warning -- and he'd notice a lovely fruit basket on her desk.

Varric mostly takes that as a sign that Garrett is much more like his father than either would care to admit. _Mal was never the best at focus. Brilliant, skilled, and creative... but not overly dedicated (except to people anyway). Both of them are as horny as rabbits too._

When told he's on the janitorial staff next, Garrett laughs, and asks for 'seriously, though, my real assignment'. All the work gets done that week -- but security footage shows it's because he brought a book and a friend he's paying to do it for him, because, fuck that, he's not cleaning toilets. There's technically nothing on the books against outsourcing janitorial work, given they use contracting companies sometimes, but it's hardly the spirit of the job...

_Yeah, about what I expected,_ Varric figures as he looks over the tapes. _Was hoping he would at least get something out of it (something of value, not the 'plot' of the latest slasher pulp). Not humility, his ego is far too robust to fall so easily, but something. An appreciation for the work others do at least._ Still, his 'sub-contractor' had been competent. And the security loophole Garrett exploited to get him in the building got closed, so that was good in a way.

He does better the next week in the warehouse. The look on his face indicates he still thinks this is beneath him, but at least it's not toilets. Varric runs a slick operation at the warehouse, and Garrett just... doesn't seem to get the picture. He does his work, but he doesn't seem bothered by not hitting his times, by being slower than the others and stopping to ask questions over and over. The last day he's there he asks just as many questions as the first day, and nearly causes a problem when he decides to forgo the rolling stairs and climb the racks to put something away near the top of the warehouse. The manager is keen to get rid of him, and he doesn't object either.

_Passive dickery (with a side of uselessness) as a means of protest. Stone, he's a little shite, isn't he?_ Varric scowls as he notes Garrett's file in his personal records. _Clear as diamonds that he's not going to ever do a job he doesn't think suits him (not that he seems to know what that looks like). Typical rich kid._

The last week, he's posted as a temp to cover for Mrs Berasi's legal assistant as she takes a few sick days. This time, nothing disastrous seems to happen. In fact, it seems to be going well -- the work gets done, he doesn't punch her, she is as crotchety as ever so it's clear he hasn't seduced her... 

Until he walks into Varric's office unannounced Friday afternoon, after confirming with his secretary he's alone, and drops a file folder onto his desk. "Verbal abuse, harassment, and unless I miss my guess, a hostile work environment. You going to handle this internally or am I filing this with my lawyer? Ten to one I can get Susan on board," he adds, name-dropping the legal assistant he's covering for.

Varric doesn't look away from his own work, doesn't even acknowledge Garrett entering the room. The only indication that Garrett gets that he was noticed at all was the blinds opening up twenty percent- thanks to his optical implants, Varric keeps his room barely illuminated when he's by himself.

Garrett crosses his arms, standing, towering above the seated dwarf. "Well? This is a courtesy, might I remind you -- I could have gone right to the lawyers, and good luck keeping the press away from it then. You take care of this, or I will, and you won't like how I do it."

Varric sighs. "Never learned how to use a light touch. No finesse or deftness, just going right to the hammer of Daddy's money and power." He still doesn't look at Garrett. "Does it make you feel better, coming in so strongly, casting down threats and challenges without even trying diplomacy?"

Garrett slams a fist on the desk, a small growl emerging from his throat. "This isn't the time for games, Varric. Susan's going to work for this woman on monday. If I don't reach out to the lawyer by eight pm, I'm not sure I can get him this weekend -- meaning I don't have time to dick around and listen to you lecture me on propriety."

Varric finally lifts his gaze. "If you're worried about her, then why didn't you at least _try_ to approach me politely instead of making threats? I could have Miss Susan reassigned, given paid leave, or whatever's needed in less than an hour, neatly removing the deadline. But by making threats, you've now put me in a position where I have to weight Susan's wellbeing against allowing an employee to dictate executive actions via coercion, which sets a very dangerous precedent."

"Coercion," the mage snorts. "It's only business. If you don't want my warnings, fine. I won't give them in the future."

"Why this method?" Varric presses. "Why not simply approach me and tell me you found a problem?"

"That's what I've done -- and you're not interested."

"No, you came in and threatened me," Varric says patiently. "Why be so heavy handed? You can always ramp up aggression, but you can't undo any burnt bridges you've caused."

"I gave you a _warning_. If you choose to read that as a threat, that's on your head."

Varric nods slowly, expression thoughtful. "So it's not your fault if you threaten people by accident- _you_ know you meant well, so that's all that matters?"

"Look, you either plan to do something or you don't. Either way, I'm getting this resolved."

"This is handled," Varric says, gesturing at the file. "You need to look at yourself. Why did you feel the need to handle it this way?"

"I'm not looking for a guru, thanks," he says, darkly, turning to go. "If I hear one peep out of Susan on Monday, I'm calling it in. No second chances."

"Tough shit," Varric snaps. "If you fuck up, I'm going to call you on it. Finding this out, having the resolve to do something about it? Good for you. Exactly what someone should do. But you fumbled hard on the finish."

He waves with two fingers over his shoulder, not looking back. "I'm going to lunch." _Where I plan to consume bad shellfish so I have to call out the rest of the day._

Varric sighs, watching him go. _Dammit... Mal... I'm sorry, but we need to talk. This... this isn't working._

* * *

Malcolm doesn't entertain Varric at home -- though not because he's ashamed of the dwarf. After all, it's not as if Varric hasn't been to the Amell Household before, on numerous occasions. No, today he entertains the dwarf in his office primarily because he's still there, working, late into the evening.

Malcolm's office has become his refuge, his personal penthouse. It occupies half the top floor of his Tower, the office building where the Amell Corporation global headquarters resides. Because he entertains visitors, he's built both a conference room and a bar up there, and rumor has it he's turned the old file storage room into a bedchamber so he can spend the night if need be. The bulk of the space is, of course, his workshop, where he personally can do research and development tasks, sorting out the possible from the impossible before he assigns his teams to carry out turning possible into practical.

For Varric, he leaves the workshop, heading to the bar area. This late, the city of Kirkwall is spread out below them, lights twinkling like stars. They can see out over the water, see the fog hanging heavy over it, threatening to roll in at any moment; in the daytime, they can see the Gates to the City, the pair of statues that welcome ships into the only safe harbor on the rocky island, but at night the fog occludes much. The window is curved, floor to ceiling and flawless; the bar is similarly curved, facing outward so you can admire the view while mixing a drink.

Mal mixes two, taking them over to sit at the round table. The seats are a long, curved half-booth, facing the windows: white, with red cushions, curved and polished like something out of a futuristic science fiction film. He sits beside his old friend, putting a glass in front of each of them, so they can look out over the city as they talk. 

"That bad?" he asks, in response to Varric's earlier statements. 

"You coddled him too much. He expects to get by on charm, innate talent and you. For most things... he's right. He is smart, charming and clever. But he doesn't seem to know how or when to use what." Varric sighs as he slips his drink. _Should I touch on his... promiscuity? No, that's not a real concern. Besides, Mal used to be just as bad._ "He's got good intentions, most of the time anyway. Tries to be helpful and to not dick over other people. Unless they annoy him in any way."

Malcolm is silent for a while, looking out over the city. Finally, with a reticence that tips Varric off that he'd only speak so freely to his best friend, he relents: "I knew that, I think. Deep down. Heaven knows I spoiled them both when they were young, but Marian turned out so well I thought... well.. I thought Garrett just needed a little push. A chance to spread his wings."

"Where is she, by the way? Haven't seen her around in ages," Varric asks, seizing on the digression to give Mal some time to process.

"Greece, I think, this month. She's on that world-travelling research ship still."

"Huh. Isn't it the twin's birthday later this month?" 'The twins' is always Beth and Carver, never Garrett and Marian. Which is... telling really. "Is she not..?"

"She promised she'd Send," he sighs, meaning the tongue-in-cheek-named app for communicating via Amell Phones and not the spell, which can only carry messages a short distance. "They're hurt, of course, but what can you do? They only turn eighteen once, but she only gets an opportunity like this once a lifetime." 

It'd hurt less if she hadn't missed Christmas, or Christmas the year before, or the twins' previous birthday. If she'd been home more than strictly necessary. But he's not going to cage his children, not ever. If Marian Hawke needs time and space to discover herself, she's going to get it, no matter what it does to Malcolm.

_I cannot fathom how someone could..._ For the millionth time, Varric forces his thoughts from jealousy, of the stirrings of actual hatred for those that spit on the blessing they have. That hurt or abandon their family.

"Sure, of course," he says, tone unconvinced. _Can't even take just the day, the afternoon off? Teleport spells are pricey but Mal would- stop it._ "Anyway. Garrett. He... there is good in him but getting it out is going to be like smelting the dross from silver."

"Try that in English?" says Malcom, smirking. He's well familiar with many of Varric's Chinese sayings by now -- but he pretends he's just as clueless as the day they met.

"Sweat, blood and tears," Varric says grimly, the corner of his lip quirking up. "Lots of them, and not just his. I'm real afraid that-" He cuts off, glancing towards the door inside, from where the sound of a phone ringing can be heard.

Malcolm frowns. His Amell Phone is in his pocket, of course -- but it's on silence, automatically, not just Minimal Interruptions but Silence All Calls mode, as is his habit when Varric is around. 

The phone on the desk never rings after five. Not unless there's an emergency. It will ring for five people in the entire world -- and it requires a pin code from one of them before it'll make noise. So for that to be ringing....

"Apologies," he says curtly, sliding out from the booth and digging his phone from his pocket. With three taps, he forwards the call to his mobile and lifts it to his ear. "Malcolm here," he says, his voice still professional, but answering with his first name instead of his last.

He says nothing else, but his face pales as he listens to the voice on the other end. "I see," he adds, after far too long for this to be a simple matter. "I'll be right there." 

He hangs up, sliding the phone into the pocket, and strides to the coatrack to grab his coat. "That was the hospital."

Having automatically starting trying to intercept and decrypt the call -- Varric rarely uses what he gleans from his habitual invasions of privacy but his ingrained paranoia and wariness go deeper than bone -- the dwarf nods. The call hadn't been long enough to get past Malcolm's bleeding edge security protocols any deeper than tracing the other end, which was exactly what Malcolm had said. "Teleport or copter?" he asks crisply, rising to his feet.

"Copter," he says, after a moment's pause. If he teleported, he could be there in an instant -- but only to the designated teleport spot in the parking lot, far from the hospital's computer systems, and Varric would have to catch an Uber to keep up. The copter can land on the roof, and he can have the room number on his phone by the time they get there. 

As they start walking for the roof access, he adds, "it's Garrett. He's been in an accident."

Varric winces as he remote starts the helicopter and starts flagging for a flight plan. As good as he and his implants are, that takes a fair bit of concentration so he's mostly following on auto. "Any details?" he grunts.

"No," he says quietly. "But they don't call me over broken bones. They call if there's-- they want someone on-site who can make medical decisions."

Given that magical healing is so intensive and dangerous to the body, not to mention hard on electronic equipment, its use in trauma cases is limited to ensuring that the patient survives. There are also hard limits; it's rare to find a healer who can reverse brain death or massive brain damage. They don't like to use any in accident scenarios unless there's a field medic on the scene -- healing the outward signs of trauma does not remove any infections that may have occurred, and it weakens the immune system, leading to more difficult complications down the line. That said, if the case is bad enough, they may want to employ magical healing -- and they'll want someone to sign a release form if so. Calling Malcolm means Garrett is unconscious, dying, or dead. 

"Fuck."

The two don't say much more than that until they're in the air, Varric focusing on piloting. Mal isn't bad at it himself, but Varric is better. And... well, he's distracted for obvious reasons. Best to not make him fly. It's not a long trip to the hospital and Mal manages to get landing clearance before they arrive, so they'd down and exiting without issue, heading to the room.

Malcolm's a shell of himself by the time they land -- he's taken to biting his nails again, an old habit he's long since dropped. But you wouldn't know to look at him once they get on the roof. He strides confidently to meet the nurse, walking slightly faster than is comfortable for her as she briefs him on the situation.

Thankfully, Garrett is alive. Unconscious, but alive. They've already administered emergency healing on the crash site, as little as they could get away with; they've brought him in through the ICU, but they expect him to recover. No damage to the spine, though one of his legs was badly mangled before the healing and will need to be in a cast for some time. The treatment plan is solid, and Malcolm has no issues dashing off a quick signature for the waiver -- this could have been done over fax, if it were just about Garrett's care. 

No, it's the cops standing outside his room that Malcolm was called in to deal with. 

One of them is new to him, though not to Varric: a short, scrappy woman with a shock of white-blond hair, the sides shaved short. Wylde Lowell, marshal, likely having taken the case off the beat cop who called for backup. The other is very much not. Captain Vallen of the Kirkwall Police Department is a familiar face to Malcolm by now, though not a welcome one. Vallen's personally been handling anything associated with him or his family for years now, and she's proven oddly resistant to both his charms and his money. 

Malcolm plasters on a false smile and nods to them. "Captain. What's this about, then?"

"Roughly five years," Vallen says bluntly. _The Amells aren't the worst of the lot, but the way these 'Nobles of the Caribbean' run roughshod over the common folk is disgusting. I have him solid this time and like hell am I letting him slip his way out._ "Seven if the kid's wrist is broken, not just sprained." Her eyes flick to Varric and her lips curls slightly. _Great. Of course he's here too._

Malcolm's smile doesn't slip, but his voice becomes a touch chillier, exposing the steel core under his pretty words.

"Let's not misunderstand each other," he says, locking eyes with Aveline. "My son is in that room, so badly wounded he required magical healing. I have not yet seen him. I have not seen for myself that my son is alive because you are standing between myself and him. I would greatly appreciate your being clear about what it is I can do to get into that room faster. I understand that you are not a parent, but perhaps you have spoken to enough parents that you can have some understanding of my feelings on the matter of word games right now."

Aveline's eyes narrow, fury roaring in them, though her voice never budges from politely firm. "Dylan Gottwald has parents too. His mother was gardening around the side of the house when your son almost murdered her son because he got on a bike with three milligrams of lyrium in his system on top of a point oh eight BAL. Dylan won't be receiving magical healing. Dylan's parents are farmers and can't even afford to take off work to be with him while he's treated. But go ahead and reassure yourself," she finishes, gesturing at the door next to her. "I'll wait."

Malcolm gestures to Varric, not bothering to even ask. "Dylan Gottwald's parents have been contacted and his medical bills paid. We can have this discussion when you can be civil enough to tell me what happened instead of pointing fingers, Captain. Good evening."

That said, he moves past her, entering the door to the hospital room. _I'll need to see those blood tests, have my own doctor re-run them. There's no way she got the blood herself, I can put it down to a medical transcription error. Doc'll get him a prescription for Lyntol, that sometimes shows up as Lyrium in blood tests, confuse the matter. That brings it down to drunk driving, he can beg off with community service in court. He's alive, that's what matters._

Despite reassuring himself, as he looks down at Garrett's body, so seemingly small and fragile between all the medical instruments and the cast on his leg, he can't help but wonder what's really going on with his son. Time was, he'd never think to start a vehicle tipsy, let alone drunk. _And now he's hit some kid? Garrett... what's **happened** to you?_

"Captain Vallen," Varric says cheerfully, eyes glinting with challenge. "Let's talk legalities and other such things," he begins, enjoying the way the cop's jaw tightens. He's sent a quick message to his own lawyer to get on the Gottwald angle before Mal even finishes talking. He'd love to get started on hacking the hospital to start changing numbers, but Vallen is too sharp to divide his attention. Which does make it more fun, true, but he'd prefer a less... fraught occasion for such things. _Whatever this is about, I really hope Garrett pulls through. For Mal's sake, if nothing else._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's survived his crash, but at what cost? Now that his father and Varric know a little of what his life is like, what lengths will they go to in order to keep him safe?

Overnight, before the police office opens, before Vallen has access to most of her specialists, the situation drastically changes. Now, Garrett's a nice kid who's been taking antibiotics for flu-like symptoms, just finishing up a course; a more detailed panel reveals no lyrium in his system. Of course there's none; that would be illegal, highly illegal, as he's not gone through the Kirkwall Militia training required to get a license for the stuff. Lyrium is the most controlled substance on the world markets, after all. How would a good kid like Garrett even get any? Nonsense.

The alcohol is harder to deal with. Subsequent blood tests, even before being altered, put him a bit lower, at .07% — just on the edge of illegal. Of course that's due to the magic healing speeding up his metabolism, but with the police department accidentally losing their copy of his tests, there's no way to prove it was over .08 before the healing, is there?

The kid's parents are grateful when their medical bills are paid, and doubly so for the apology money sent out of the goodness of Malcolm's heart: more than enough to pay for the repairs to their front window, the repainting of the interior wall to remove Garrett's blood from it. Malcolm meets with them in person, one father to another, and comes away with a gentleman's understanding that "there's no need to get the law involved, really, it was a freak accident". Malcolm even covers the extensive vet bills for the family Yorkie, being careful to hint that the dog's culpability in the accident was high enough that they didn't want to open the can of worms called legal action. Thanks to way more surgery than most families opt for over a dog, the Yorkie pulls through, and Malcolm pays the whole bill and tips generously into the vet's fund for low-income patients to boot.

He's exhausted, and now he's behind on his work. But Malcolm can't rest. Not while his son hasn't woken yet. So he heads to the caf to get some strong coffee and sub-par sandwiches, hoping to keep his body going until he's sure Garrett's body is as healed as his record.

* * *

Garrett's first thought upon waking is for Fenris. His lover had been just behind him; was he, too, lying hurt somewhere, bleeding out, unwilling to ask for help? Or had he fled the scene, terrified of what would happen if he walked into a hospital even once?

Garrett's sure he's in a hospital. It's not the first time he's ended up here, though the first time he did so in his sleep. The beeping and whooshing of the machines is familiar, as is the gnawing ache of magical healing in his gut — not the ache of Blue hangover, he prays, that would mean he's been out far too long. Nothing hurts, but he can see when he wakes, and that's a good sign — and he struggles to quite focus, meaning he's high on something other than Blue. _Morphine? How bad am I hurt?_ he wonders, but as he struggles to shrug off the last of the sleep, he begins to feel a dull ache in his head, and one in his leg. _Not too badly, then. Gonna hurt like a bitch tomorrow I'll bet._ Finally, he turns his attention to the other figure in the room — surprisingly, not his father.

Varric appears to be dozing in a nearby chair, but truth be told, he's hard at work. Underneath his chair is a massive hard drive, CPUs and wireless router block: no keyboard or mouse, no manual inputs of any kind save a power button. Harder to notice is the cord dangling from his wrist to the bag holding the cyber-boost block. Despite the low grade migraine it causes, this set-up allows Varric to not only run his company from the hospital, but also trawl the net and burn down any hints of last night's massive cock-up. Stopping the cops from jailing Garrett is prime priority, sure, but keeping the family name from being tarred and feathered is important too. The hospital records were doctored ages ago, so he's mostly focused on work, skimming back over news sites and forums every so often, just in case someone was late to the party with anything incriminating.

Hearing a faint groan, Varric starts signing out and delegating things rapidly so he can return to the real word. By the time Garrett is done with his self-assessment, Varric is blinking back tears as his brain realizes how much he's overworked it. "Awake then?" he asks curtly.

"Yeah," Garrett groans. _Maker, my mouth tastes like ass. Well, not literally I suppose. Fen's ass tastes better than my mouth right now. Ashes and rot, maybe. Ugh. With a hint of melted plastic. Focus, Garrett._ "'happened?" he asks, struggling to piece together what he remembers. _We were racing, and then..._

Varric pauses to double check that his bypass of the camera system in this room is still in place and that his jammer is active before he answers — it's not paranoia when the rulers of a superpower would like you dead. "Well, you fucked up. Thankfully that kid has better relaxes and judgement than you, so he's going to live despite your best efforts." _Fuck. That was too harsh (accurate though). Dial it back a little maybe._

"Kid?" the mage slurs, frowning slightly as he remembers. "No. Dog. There was a dog. No kids. Fuckin'... ten pm, no fuckin' kids." _I wouldn't have gone through that shortcut if there were going to be kids playing. No way._

"His dad works during all day, from ten to ten. He got up to see him when they got home. Brought the dog out to say hi too, stayed out so the mutt could do its business," Varric says simply. "Bruises, scrapes, sprained wrist. Dog's gonna live too." _Walk with a limp for the rest of its life, but live (probably never go near the street again either)._

"Good." Garrett slumps back against the pillow. "'mphone?" he asks, wanting to text Fenris rather than ask about him. Just in case.

"The doctors removed the shards from your leg about six hours ago," Varric replies. "You do realize you almost killed two people, right? Broke the heart of three parents?" _Shit. Maybe he won't notice._

_Three. **Fenris**. But he said 'almost' killed two — did I— wait. Not three sets. Three parents. Kid must have a single dad or something. Breathe, Garrett. He'll notice._ Varric might not have noticed with his eyes, but the machine picked up the elevated heart-rate, and Varric's got an eye on the machines. "Almost isn't dead," Garrett grumbles. "I need a phone."

"No," Varric says simply. " _You almost killed a fucking six year old kid._ Do you even care?" the dwarf spits, detaching the cable from his wrist and standing. "You wanted to have fun, got high, got drunk and wanted to go fast, and a little kid almost died because of you!"

Garrett narrows his eyes, heart pounding. _I'll care more about 'almost' when I know Fenris is safe_ , he doesn't growl out. "Of course I care," he snaps instead. "But you just told me he didn't and right now I— I have something I need to check on."

Varric studies Garrett closely, frowning. _Wait... was he just joy-riding? Or was he going somewhere? Or to someone? Hmm_."What's the number?"

"Private," he snaps, "and I'm not giving you my Wire password." Wire, of course, being one of many secure messaging apps — and not one that Varric wrote, so not the same one Malcolm prefers. Maybe he's just being trendy, picking the app his friends use; the problem with secure messaging protocols is they're not universal, meaning you can't send to one app from another the way you can a text message or a phone call.

"Well, given that your phone is about fifty pieces in a bio-waste bin and mine is implanted in my chest..." Varric spreads his hands. "Do you want to pm your friend or not?"

Garrett hesitates a moment, then a moment longer. Finally, he rattles off a number. "Send over, tell F that G is fine, go on without me. I'd say break a leg, but I already did. End message."

Varric is quiet a moment, his only reaction wrinkling his nose at the poor user interface. _Clearly not designed to work for implants. Ugh._ "Done," he says absently, then refocuses. "So what the fuck happened?"

"You tell me," he mumbles. "I was on my bike, there was a dog, I swerved, I woke up here."

"Uh-huh. And why were you on riding your bike two kilometers an hour through a poor residential district at ten at night?"

He's already preparing an alibi, having expected to be grilled on the text of his message. "We were on our way to karaoke. With friends. Had you message one of the friends."

"Sure, sure. Didn't realize karaoke was so serious that you needed to triple the speed limit." He waits a beat, just long enough for Garrett to start to reply, then continues. "Or that you needed to pre-game for it. With fucking lyrium."

"Was all in good fun," he says, casually, not really listening to the latter half of the sentence as he waits for another break.

"Dead kids are fun? I really need to sign up for a newsletter or something..."

"I wasn't pregaming," adds Garrett, catching up to that earlier aside he'd talked over — and, incidentally, talking over Varric's jab. "We'd been doing some drinking, nothing serious."

"Any reason why you think you can lie past bloodwork? I mean... maybe you could spin a 'someone must have dosed me' story or something but just... denying it outright?" Varric clucks his tongue. "Garrett... you fucked up. Big. Almost killed a little kid and his dog. Almost died yourself — you needed emergency magical healing twice and your leg is going to be fucked up for months. Might never heal all the way. Mal's spent the last thirteen hours driving himself ragged cleaning up after your shit so you don't end up in jail. Five years was the baseline, by the way. So maybe you could try taking this just a bit seriously yeah?"

Garrett is silent for a moment. Finally, pushing through the morphine, he says, "I want my d— lawyer."

It's then that Varric gets a reply text: 'F's not with me, man, you two never showed. Lose my number.'

Varric snorts, ignoring the message for now. "Garret, you don't have a lawyer. Your _dad_ has lawyers, but you're just an intern with a trust fund." _F? G is obvious but F? Lose my number... that's punk talk, illegal shit punk talk._ "Cowardly," he adds almost absently. "Cowardly intern."

"Then I want my dad's lawyer," he snaps. _Or my dad_. "You have no right. You're not even family, just my dad's friend - or is that mistress?"

Some dark and ugly shines behind Varric's eyes for just a second. "He's eating," Varric replies very carefully, then he says softly, "unlike you, I actually care about his well being and peace of mind."

"Which is why you're sitting here threatening me?"

"You have a real shaky grasp of the definition of that word."

"Maybe it's the morphine, but when someone starts throwing around the words 'jail time' I get twitchy."

"...did you forget that I'm not a cop? You _work_ for me."

"...that's why you're here," Garrett says, stupidly, after a moment. "To fire me? In the _hospital_?"

"No, you daft cunt, I'm here because your father is my best friend and he deserves to have some fucking support while he cleans up after you," Varric growls. _And worries himself to death because of the shit show that is your life._

_My best friend._ A pang of guilt hits, and Garrett asks, "Did you get a reply? To that message?"

"R- yeah," Varric say, still annoyed. "No changing the subject — anymore than we already have. Where the fuck did you even get lyrium and why were you stupid enough to take any of it?"

"Lawyer," he snaps. "we're not talking about Blue while I'm on morphine." He realizes his mistake a moment later: using the street name 'blue' all but confirms Varric's worst suspicions.

"Garrett... one, the room is secure. Two, your dad's already covered it up for you." He studies Garrett for a long moment, then shakes his head.

"He— what? You told my dad? Not cool, man," he groans, aware that's not the right response but struggling to figure out what he _should_ be saying here.

Varric just stares at Garret. "No... Captain Vallen of the KPD told your father. The bloodwork was already done before we even got called. Your dad managed to tweak things afterwards. You've been fighting off a flu for the past week by the way. Saw your doctor Wednesday and got some antibiotics."

Garrett stares at Varric, some of this seeming to finally sink in. "Fuck," he whispers, sounding actually worried.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "You're still on the hook for alcohol; a hair under the legal limit though, rather than what you were actually at when you crashed. Probably be able to plea it down to suspended license, fine and maybe some community service, though that depends on just how through or creative they get with the other criminal charges. Again, Mal's already handled the kid's family: medical bills, repairs for their house, compensation for their time and emotional trauma." He locks eyes with Garrett. "Over half a mill by this point." _Well, four hundred, four-fifty k anyway between the bills, payouts and bribes._

The money means nothing to Garrett — too big, too abstract, like his tuition, like his black card Mal autopays every month. 'Emotional trauma' means more, clearly, as he winces a bit, though as Varric meets his eyes he lifts his chin, defiant. _Suspended license is going to be a problem. Community service will be annoying. Criminal charges..._ "I'll take care of it."

"Really," Varric says wryly. "Didn't realize you had that much stashed away."

"The charges, asshole. Dad won't let me touch my trust even if I wanted to."

Varric snickers. "Adorable."

"Fuck you," he snaps. "You think I'm scared of you, but I'm not. You wouldn't be talking so big if I wasn't in this bed."

"You mean like how I've talked to you every other time we've met?" Varric asks curiously.

"The definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over," he growls.

"...what is that even supposed to mean in this context?" Varric asks with amusement. _Right, morphine drip (oddly focused for that though)._

"You always talk to me that way — does it make you happy? Do you get what you want out of this farce?"

"Farce?" the dwarf asks mildly.

"This— you know what I mean." He frowns, then. _Something important I'm forgetting_. "Did you get a reply?"

_Reply? To—_ "Yeah, a minute or so ago," Varric replies, eyes narrowing. "And I don't know what you mean about knowing what you mean."

"What'd he say?" Garrett ignores the latter part — it's too complicated for him to parse right now. Instead, he considers struggling to sit up — but upon twitching faintly, decides against it.

"Hey, stay down. Your leg got mangled, but you also bruised some ribs and battered the rest of you as well," Varric says quickly, stepping forward. "Whoever you texted is upset that neither you nor 'F' showed up to the dance club."

"He— he never showed? What time is it— what _day_ is it?" At least he lies still again.

"You've been down for twelve hours or so. So... Saturday, almost noon," Varric replies, also making note that he didn't correct him about 'dance club' versus 'karaoke.'

"Noon, and — dammit, I need a laptop. I need to check my email. Dammit, dammit!" It's not just anger that spurs him to try to sit up again, against his better interests — even Varric can pick up the fear underneath it. _Dammit, Fenris, where are you? Did I kill you too? How could I have been so stupid, why did I let you talk me into juicing — you needed a hit like nobody's business, I should have held firm at not taking one too. Dammit. Did I even hit the kid? Or did Fenris wing him? I wish I could remember clearly._

Varric reaches out quickly, pressing a hand firmly against Garrett's breastbone. "Stay. Down," the dwarf commands in a steely voice, eyes boring into Garrett's. "You weren't racing alone last night I gather? There wasn't any sign of another rider, just you. Kid didn't see anyone else either."

"It was dark," he protests. "Maker only knows where he went. Dammit. I have to go find him." He doesn't have the strength to resist Varric, thankfully — or rather, he does, but not enough to overcome the spike of pain as well as the dwarf. So he glares back at Varric, weighing the pros and cons of casting — he'd get up faster, but he'd short out the equipment, and some of that's attached to him.

"If you promise to stay down, I'll link to my Cy-boost and do a search for any reports. Give me a name and I'll find him," Varric says softly. _This F is really important to him... (boyfriend?) Not going to calm down until he gets word._

"He doesn't use his real name anywhere. If there's a report, he's dead." Garrett takes a deep breath, then another. "You'd know if they found his body. It'd be all over the evening news. So. Not dead, then." _Unless they haven't found the body. No, shut up, Garrett, he's not dead._ "I'll just— I'll just have to catch up with him later."

"...interesting reasoning," Varric observes neutrally. _The fuck?_ "You're going to be here until at least tomorrow night, you realize. Probably Tuesday morning."

"I'll have them write you a sick note," he mutters. _Focus, Garrett. Who can you send to check on Fenris? Does he have other friends? Hell, do you? Bela's left town — who can you trust?_ He frowns, thinking it over. _....Wow. That's a depressingly short list. And none of them people I want Varric to have the numbers of. Alright. So. Nothing to be done about it. Just hope he's alive, and get to your computer soon as you can._ "Fine," he sighs. "Alright."

Varric studies the young man for a long, hard moment. "If I get you your laptop, will you agree to actually _follow_ your recovery plan? No booze, no sneaking off, no skipping out on rehab?"

"Rehab?" That got his attention.

"You seriously surprised by that?" Truth be told, he had been mostly thinking of physical therapy for the leg, but... Varric isn't one for telling many truths.

"You said Dad took care of it."

Varric just stares at him pointedly.

"Dad won't send me to Rehab. It'd be bad for the Family Name."

Varric glances to the side, then chuckles. "That was before you almost committed a murder-suicide. I've got a short list in my inbox that he's asked me to look into. Thinking the Marble Cliffs Resort myself- fancy name, but my preliminary search shows they're the most serious by far."

"Not Marble Cliffs," says Garrett darkly. "They're run by the Church, behind the scenes." _At least, according to Anders. And wouldn't it be swell if I ran into his buddies there?_

"...and how would you know that?" Varric asks slowly.

"...I heard it online somewhere," he says, slowly. _Fuck! Damn the morphine._

"Online... somewhere a dwarf couldn't find easy? Have a particular reason to look that hard for that sort of thing>"

"A friend mentioned it, and no, not the same one." He manages to sound snide, despite mentally kicking himself.

_You lie a lot better when you're not doped (which is fair)._ "Ah, yes, the legendary friend of always accurate rumor."

"Look, whatever. I'll talk to Dad about it."

"So you don't want your laptop then?"

"You're an extortionist. I won't drink while I'm in hospital, and I'll obey the doctors. Final offer."

"Fine," Varric says with a shrug, turning around to take a seat. "You can get online Tuesday then."

"You want however many months of my life for the ability to reassure myself my friend isn't dead? Fuck you, and fuck your whole company!"

"I want you to fucking take care of your damn self and I'm willing to hold your pride over your head to get it," Varric snaps back.

"I'm not an _addict_ , Varric, it was _one time_. It was a stupid mistake, I mistook how bad it'd shake me."

Varric studies the young man for a long moment. "Alright... two deals, separate ones. You agree to listen to the doctors about your recovery here — remembering that they don't know you were on lyrium — and I get you your laptop. Separately, you agree to weekly blood tests at work and I do my best to convince Mal you don't need to be sent abroad to a rehab facility."

"I'll take my chances with Dad, but I'll do the laptop deal," he says, quietly.

_So yes, you're a user. Great_. "Fine," Varric says with a faint sigh to his voice. "I'll text your dad, call him up, and grab your computer. At your loft?"

"Yes." _Unless I left it at Fen's_. "Probably. If not grab the tablet, I'll make do."

"I can do that," Varric says with a nod. "Want anything else from your place while I'm breaking in? Books or anything?"

_I don't really want you in my flat_ , Garrett manages to keep to himself. Instead, he takes a moment, mentally walking through the loft to figure out what he can ask for — and what Varric might see.

Walking in the door, he has a coat rack and an umbrella stand — both things Fenris made fun of him for having, but he kept them both anyway. They're useful, he'd argued, unlike Fen's studio flat where he just threw things onto the floor. There'd be evidence he was a fan of racing: a sculpture made from the wreck of a bike he'd won at auction, prints on the walls of professional racers on the track. Bad in the eyes of a judge, maybe, but Varric already knew how fast he'd been going. They'd done blue at Fen's place — he didn't keep it in his flat longer than it took to deliver it — so there wouldn't be paraphernalia out. Had he locked the computer? It ought to be sitting on the bartop, near the kitchen, but if it was unlocked... Well, Varric could probably hack the encryption given long enough anyway, and the fingerprint reader. Best not to worry about what might be on the machine.

He'd not made his bed. Oddly enough, that worries him. What should he care that his bed is rumpled? It's not like Varric is planning to take a black light to it. Nor is he likely to check the bedside trash can, but if he did, Garrett could say he'd had a girl over the night before. Is he going to analyze the condoms, find out whose material was in them? _Maker, you're paranoid_ , he scolds himself. _It's just your place. It's probably fine._

"'sfine. Nothing I really need if I have my laptop. Just don't go snooping."

"Good. Also, don't be surprised by the flu meds that'll be on your nightstand or dresser. Grab some tissues and empty your trash too, set the scene. What's your go-to sick food?"

"Uh. Soup? I don't get sick often. Don't go poking through my trash. Just dump tissues on top or something."

"I'm not going to rifle through it," Varric says with disgust. "I'll get some tea too."

"Get that Lady Grey stuff." _Fen liked it, though he hated to admit it._ "It'll get drunk after, at least."

_Fair idea_. "Anything else you can think of? Just texted Mal to get him moving this way. Cafe's on the ground floor."

As Garrett is considering the question, the door is pushed firmly and rapidly open. Malcolm stumbles into the room, clutching two coffees to his chest, panting a little from having sprinted all the way down the hall, but the relief on his face is palpable.

"Garrett," he says, shoulders slumping. Mindlessly, he hands Varric one of the coffees, moving to sit by Garrett's side. "Son. What happened."

"I crashed my bike," says Garrett, with a lopsided smirk.

"You were on lyrium," says Malcolm. "It's alright now, son. We'll get you help. I've been researching the best rehab centers—"

"What about the family reputation?" blurts Garrett, eyes widening.

"To hell with it. You're more important to me."

Varric takes a sip of his coffee, makes a face and deftly swaps out the cups. _Much better. Black and bitter (just like Beth's soul. Stone, her goth phase was amusing)._ Absently, he steps back to his chair and links back in to pull up his prelim research on the rehab.

Garrett stares at his father, open-mouthed. _He— what?_ "Dad, I'm not a junkie," he begins, but his father's face is unyielding — tender, but unyielding.

"You can stop anytime?"

"It's not like that! It was one time, I swear. I don't—"

"One time is too many. I almost _lost_ you, son." Macolm's voice cracks; Garrett's gut churns, fear sinking in. _Dad never sounds anything less than composed. For him to be breaking up over this..._

"I didn't— it's the alcohol. Not the blue."

"What _possessed/i > you to try it even _once_? You _know__ the dangers. No. I won't let this happen to you."

Varric glances up to catch Garrett's eyes, a faint smile on his face. Not a smug one, exactly. He _is_ pleased to be right, but only because he was right about his best friend being a good man.

Garrett closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "No."

"What?"

"No. I'm not a child anymore. You can't force me. I appreciate your concern, but I'm not going."

"He can't... but Captain Vallen can," Varric remarks arily.

"Not without way more trouble than the family wants." Here, Garrett doesn't just mean his siblings and parents — he means the Amell Corporation, a family-owned business for generations. With Leandra's parents in their declining years, it's expected that ownership will transfer to Malcolm — but there's always the chance they'll pass it on to Gamlen, Leandra's twin brother, instead.

Malcolm's face hardens. "Then damn the family. You're my _son_. I can't sit back and watch you go down this path."

"Well... maybe..." Varric begins, in his 'dealmaking' voice. Mal knows that voice well — and both loves and fears it. "Maybe we could come to a compromise. Handle this... in house if you will."

Malcolm turns his glare on Varric, one of the very few times Varric's seen Malcolm angry at _him_. "I'm not risking my son's health just to preserve the family name," he snaps. "None of us are trained professionals in addiction."

"I'm not an addict!"

"Not just about reputation- if he's not willing, then any treatment is half as effective, if that," Varric says gently. "Stick, but also mushroom, Mal."

Malcolm takes a deep breath, then another. "You'll move back in with me, then. So I can keep an eye on you," he begins, turning to Garrett — who clearly isn't any fonder of this idea than the previous one.

"How about... weekly blood tests," Varric suggests blandly. "I can do them at work. If he stays clean of Blue — and booze until the doctor's clear it — then maybe just dinner every night?"

"Not every—" Seeing his father's face, Garrett relents. "Every night for a while. We'll taper off. I'm not a child nor a prisoner, I deserve some freedom."

"You _deserve_ whatever keeps you clean and sober," says Malcolm. "No more drinking, either. If that's what caused this, then you're not responsible enough to drink."

"For now," agrees Garrett, tone dark.

"How about we revisit booze once the doctor's ban finishes," Varric suggests smoothly. "And we can get him the literature on addiction at least." A pause, then... "Maybe a therapist? Would sell well with the courts too, keep you out of jail."

"Therapy." says Garrett, tone flat with disbelief. "I'm not crazy, or suicidal."

"What you did is pretty suicidal," says Malcolm, trying to leash his temper. "And _I_ have a therapist. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I was going to recommend the partner of mine," Varric agrees.

"I— I'm not suicidal," says Garrett again, looking from Varric to his dad and back. "I'm not. I didn't mean to— this was an _accident_. This isn't what my life is like."

"Being suicidal isn't the only reason people go to therapy," Varric says a touch sharply. "Addiction is one reason. Thrill-seeking to a dangerous degree is another."

"I don't— I'm in the prime of my life, I'm just enjoying it! I'm not some... some thrill junkie."

"Then you can hash that out with your therapist," says Malcolm firmly. "I'm going to fetch the nurse. You get some rest. I'm sure they'll want to look over you."

As Mal stalks from the room, Varric gives Garrett a look. "Told you he'd care more about you than his reputation or inheriting."

Garrett lays back against the cushion, staring up at the ceiling. "I... really fucked up," he says slowly, mostly to himself. _Damn. This is going to suck._

"Yep."

* * *

Garrett isn't awake for much longer that day- the nurse looks him over, declares him 'recovering but in the need of more rest' and increases the pain med drip a hair. Varric finally convinces Mal to go home at that point, though Varric instead heads to Garrett's for a spot of B&E. When the Malcolm gets home, he's swarmed by calls from the twins — it seems Leandra has been spreading rumors. All three adults go back to the hospital Sunday, though Garrett is still tiring out far more rapidly than he would like to admit even to just conversation. He's less stressed that afternoon though, as he'd been able to get to his email — not that 'I'm fine, leave me be' is normally a comforting response, but given the sender...

It's Monday afternoon that's the real problem for Garrett; he's stable and only on light painkillers at this point, so he's medically competent to give his testimony. Which means he's trying to brace himself for—

"Mister Garrett Amell- I am Captain Vallen and I have some questions for you."

—that. Fuck.

Garrett puts on his warmest smile — and it _is_ quite warm, given he's heard from Fenris and there's talk of releasing him in the morning if his vitals remain steady. "Good afternoon, Captain. Something I can help you with?"

The guard gives him a cold stare and enters the room fully. "Let's get the formalities out of the way first," she says, then does the standard interview legalities, ending with, "with that done, let's start from the top. We have you on a traffic camera at nine forty six crossing East Oak and Forty-fourth near your flat, heading towards Gladesdale. Start from there."

_Yikes. What a sweetheart._ Garrett continues smiling. "Of course. I traveled to Gladesdale, where I met with a friend. We were to go to a bar together, but we had a few beers before we left — I didn't think I'd had too many, but obviously I had more than I should have. I'm told my therapist will have some suggestions on how to keep track better, you understand," he says, rubbing the back of his head, trying to sound as genuine and bashful as he can manage.

Vallen frowns, clearly unimpressed. _A few beers. Bullshit._ "Your friend's name and address?"

"He's a very private person, he'd prefer to be kept off the record," says Garrett simply.

"This is a police investigation, Mister Amell. His testimony can be sealed afterwards but that's all."

"Sorry, I'm just not comfortable giving you his name. I'll let him know you'd prefer him to step forward, but I just don't feel right about the whole thing. You know how it is."

"I do not," she says flatly.

He shrugs. "From there, we headed downtown —"

"Mister Amell," she snaps. "I need his name and contact information or I will have to charge you for obstruction of justice. He's a witness to a crime."

"It's Hawke, actually. Garrett Hawke. Father kept his name." He smiles broadly at her. "The media always gets it wrong."

"My apologies," _Asshole, you should have said that when I was-_ "Mister Hawke. Name and contact information of the witness."

"I'm afraid I can't in good conscience answer that at this time," he says, still genially. "Unless perhaps I make some calls, talk to one of my father's staff..."

Aveline studies him for a long moment. "I'll have a subpoena sent to your lawyer of record then," she finally says evenly. "We can move on if you like for now."

"As I said, we were heading downtown. We were aiming for the Lantern district, a little pub there. We were running behind, so I suggested a shortcut. I suppose we were going a little fast," he adds, with a bashful smile. "You know. I saw an animal dart out in front of the bike, and I hit the brakes — I love animals, I'm not going to hit one if I can help it. Next thing I know, I'm in the hospital, waking up with my dad at my side.

"Forensics suggests you were traveling in excess of two hundred kilometers per hour."

"I can't speak to what forensics did or didn't find," he says, with a shrug. "Didn't seem that fast to me. A hundred forty at most."

"Which is still _double_ the speed limit," Vallen points out.

He shrugs. "You wanted the truth, I assume. Would you rather I lie?"

"No, Mister Hawke, I would not." _Smug, arrogant little shit. He has every expectation that daddy is going to pay his way out._ She hates to admit that he's almost certainly right. If he sees even a day of jail time, she'll be floored.

"Do you have any other questions for me?"

"What was the name of the club you were going to?" she asks, almost perfunctory.

"Blue Lagoon." He smiles, as if fondly remembering the margaritas.

"Where did you and your friend consume the alcohol?"

"At his home."

_So he was drinking as well- twice confirmed is pretty hard to dispute. So now the other person isn't just a witness and accessory, but also a suspect as well. Good._ "And did you or your friend supply the intoxicants?"

"The alcohol? I brought it. I drank more than my friend did," he adds — if his BAC was just below the limit...

_Doesn't matter- without a blood test for the friend, any allegations of DUI will be laughed out._ "And the other substances in your bloodwork? Did you provide those as well?"

"I'd have to see the bloodwork to be sure. I'm told my antibiotics showed up, but it's not as though I bring those out to the bar with me," he chuckles.

Her eyes narrow. "Your... antibiotics," she says slowly. _No..._

"Well, sure. Isn't that what you meant?" he asks, with a sunny smile.

"Your tests showed positive for _lyrium_ , with trace amounts of methamphetamine," Aveline says harshly, leaning towards him slightly.

"Did they? How odd." He blinks. "I have no idea why that is."

"Really," she says flatly, glaring.

He shrugs. "I wouldn't even know where to get lyrium. None of my friends or I are users. That stuff kills."

All damn lies, of course. He'd bought the blue — he'd always bought the blue. That was, he thought in his darker moments, the main reason Fenris kept him around: he needed the blue, whatever he wanted to believe about his ability to get clean, and Garrett could provide it. But he kept his hair clean-cut, his smile broad, his eyes sparkling. Most people couldn't reconcile those things with the image of a drug user, let alone someone dealing lyrium to multiple junkies out of the goodness of his heart.

_I know he's lying, I can **taste** it. But he's too damn confident for it to just be a lie. Dammit! How did he..._ "Fine. There's still the charges of reckless driving, reckless endangerment of a minor, destruction of property, trespassing and animal cruelty."

"Of course. My dad reached out while I was unconscious — we've already paid the damages, medical bills, vet bills... I'm so awfully sorry about the whole thing. I can't imagine how awful it would be to lose a pet that way. We're doing our best to make it right." After a moment he adds, "Trespassing? I was in the street until the dog ran in front of me. I never intentionally set foot on their property."

"You were in control — or supposedly in control — of the vehicle that entered their home. Though the wall," Aveline explains through gritted teeth.

"We'll have to speak to them about that," he says, frowning. "If what we paid isn't enough, I'm sure we can reach an agreement. No sense wasting the judge's time with something I already admit is my responsibility to pay."

Aveline had to raise a hand and pretend to cover a cough to prevent her snarl from being entirely visible. "Money fixes everything then?" she can't stop herself from saying. "That must be very comforting to you, having a wealthy father to correct your... responsibilities."

"Those of us with means have a duty to use those means for the good of the less fortunate," he rattles off. "I'm only glad I was able to do something. It would tear me up inside if I couldn't have made this right."

"You can never make it right, Mister Hawke. That boy will always carry the memory of his near death, the crippling of his dog, in his heart. He will wake from a dead sleep with visions of headlights and a roaring monster coming for him. His mother will always have the sound of his terror and pained filled screams in her head. His father will always remember his son crying as his pet bleeds out in his arms. No amount of blood money will change that. Have a good day, the charges and subpoena will be delivered shortly."

* * *

Garrett takes the next week off; between court proceedings, doctor visits, and the sheer number of painkillers he's on, it's not a good idea for him to return to work.

The week after, hobbling on his crutches and with one clean blood test, he heads to work at his next post: in the accounting department, doing bookkeeping work. For the first few days, his work is done perfectly, but he takes off early each day — "it's a salaried position, if I get all my work done I should be able to leave," he grumbles, on day three, when his super tries to stop him.

"Not usually at two in the afternoon!"

"Why not?"

By the end of the week, he's openly playing video games at his desk after noon, and his super can't wait to be rid of him. But he passes that blood test too. Not a hint of lyrium, nor anything other than the painkillers he's meant to be on — and those in less than the quantities he's allowed, too.

The next week he's disappointed to be set to doing reporting and financial auditing for various business units. This time, by Wednesday he's automated half the reports, and by Friday he's made the other half obsolete by installing and tuning an intelligent reporting platform to replace the one Varric had paid for — that had been abandoned by most of the staff.

The week after, he's set to payroll.

This time, at the end of the week, there's alcohol in his blood test. To be fair, doctor's orders allow him to drink in moderation again — and to be fair, his BAC is low. But it's not a great sign, no.

Called to speak to the boss, he sits in the waiting room, idly typing on his phone. Garrett had started with another diversion, attempting to chat with the delightfully put together secretary with the raven locks and deep hazel eyes, but that hadn't lasted long. The man was polite, even friendly, but he seemed utterly oblivious to Garrett's teasing. Shame, but what can you do? At least Varric keeps charging docks, with wires, in his waiting room, because the guy that went in before him is taking for damn ever. He'd been called up nearly twenty minutes ago and—

"You can't fucking do this, you little shit!"

Wow, someone is pissed. The secretary frowns and glances at the call buttons set into a panel on the desk but rises instead. He goes the door and opens it, clearly intending to ask what's going on or if he should call security. Before he even finishes the 'T' in 'Mister Thedas' he staggers back, clutching at his face. A pair of loud crashes come right on the heels of that attack- a crystal tumbler? Good thing it's crystal and not glass, or he's have more than a bruise... The door open, Garrett can hear shouts of anger and- sweet Andraste, was that a fucking fireball?

_I really shouldn't save him_ , thinks Garrett, as the spell mote flies from his hand. A moment later, the attacker is frozen solid, rime covering every available surface — a paralytic effect, with some cold damage on top of that. _Let's see what we're dealing with..._

The mage jerks, already starting to break free, though not as rapidly as Garrett could under the same attack, when Varric pops over his desk and hits him with a taser. The dwarf is bleeding from a gash on his arm, but the worse injury is the way his right eye is completely crimson, with blood leaking out from under the lid and from the tear duct. Fuck, some of his implants must have overloaded from the direct touch of magic. Rare for that to happen from a standard attack spell, the mage must known one of the very rare, very restricted anti-tech spells.

Staggering back against his desk, the dwarf stares at Garrett blearily, tilting his head to see out of the good eye. "Garret?" he asks warily.

"Suppose healing's out then?" he says, casually, staring down at the limp form as he leans on his crutch. _Fucker. I should have done worse. Didn't know where Varric was standing._ "Right, I'll ring Dad."

"Seb- Sebastian okay?" Varric asks tiredly, waving an agreement. Scowling, he reaches down and tasers the mage again, though only for a short burst.

Garrett shrugs. "I only froze him, you tell me." He reaches into his back pocket, scowls, and hobbles out to the waiting room to pick up his phone from where it's fallen to the carpeted floor.

"No, my- my secretary.. Give two shits about Jowan right about now," Varric mutters, glaring at the downed mage. In the waiting room, the now identified Sebastian is just staring at his hand, at the tiny smear of blood on it. Shock maybe?

"He's fine," says Garrett, hitting speed dial. "You really should hire a bodyguard."

"I do, just not in my office," Varric grumbles, moving back around his desk to get his first age kit.

"Sounds like a problem," he comments, as the phone rings. "At least hire a secretary who can handle himself."

"Never had someone react to a fuckin audit like this," Varric growls as he tries to get his suit jacket off so he can clean the gash on his arm. "Can't- sonofva!- wait to see what skeletons he's got buried."

Garrett frowns, still holding the phone to his ear. "Sit down already, Maker. Look, where's your first aid kit, I can get you patched up a little at least." _Dad's not answering his normal line..._

"Already got it out, on my desk," Varric mutters sourly, working his sleeve back to expose the cut. Which turns out to be wicked looking four inch slice. Neat wound at least, no jagged edges; based on all the glass and crystal shards, Jowan must have some telekinetic spells on tap as well. "Mal's doing a demo today, in an hour," he adds, taking a guess based on his observations of Garrett rather than risking the use of his implants right now.

"I'll leave a— hey dad, it's me, call me back. Mr Thedas needs a hand." He hangs up, tucking the phone into his pocket as he moves to the desk, to the first aid kit. He glances over the kit, then leans heavily on his crutch, grabbing for Varric's arm with his free hand to see the cut. "Here, let me—"

Varric hisses sharply at the grab but doesn't fight it. "Tell me that emergency responder cert is real," is his only protest. He's trembling, blood loss for sure, but also likely the result of adrenaline wearing off and implant damage. The cut is long but not overly deep. Should probably get stitches though.

"You planning to go to the hospital?" he asks, studying the cut. "If not, I can do your stitches, but you won't like it."

Varric considers it, then shakes his head. "In-house doctor should be enough." He scowls then, glaring out towards his waiting area. "Page down to security, ask for the medic too." _Sebastian is evidently fucking useless in a crisis. This might (better) not happen often but I need someone that's better than a penalty if it does..._ He gives Garrett a thoughtful look. "Just hand me a gauze pad first."

He hands him the gauze pad, heads out to page security; when he comes back, he brings an ale from the break room fridge. "You should stock Gatorade," he says as he hands it over. "but this'll get some calories into you at least, help ease the shakes."

"Thanks," Varric says quietly, then chuckles. "Out of hands unfortunately." He glances at Garret. "Nice casting by the way."

"Sure," he says easily, and in one swift motion, he pops the cap off the beer bottle by slamming the rim into the desk — a party trick, and one that suggests the level of drinking he's used to quite handily. Say, wasn't that why he was here in the first place?

He picks up a roll of bandages, then, saying, "I'll wrap this for you, so it'll hold until the medic gets here. You need fluids and calories, after a gash like that

"All things considered, I think you can clock out for the day and grab one for yourself if you want," Varric says, holding out his arm. "Mal wanted me to talk to you about your blood test showing a bit of alcohol in it but... you are off full restriction. If you say you're keeping it to one or two beers a day..." He starts to shrug, then thinks better of it.

"The job is shit," he says bluntly, wrapping Varric's arm with practiced ease despite leaning on his crutch. "If I have to do shit work, I get to drink after. It's the rules."

Varric snorts. "Payroll _is_ shit. Numbers are great, but payroll is simple, boring numbers," he allows. "Still, it's a vital part of a company." He pauses, studying Garrett.

"I don't give a rat's ass about your company, Varric. I just don't. Give me a job I can _do_." He finishes wrapping Varric's arm, tying off the length of bandage with his teeth.

"What about _your_ company?" he asks quietly, eyes intent. "Your father's legacy. Will you care about that when you have it? If you get it?"

"Sure," he says, casually. "But that's decades from now. I want to live my life first, before I enslave myself to my father's legacy."

Varric snorts. "And run it into the ground within three years, if it's not stolen in one. You can't just jump into that sort of thing, Garrett. You have to know what you're doing. You have the talent and brains, but you lack the experience, skills or drive."

The mage scoffs. "You and I both know this internship is bullshit. This whole thing is bullshit. My father just wants to keep me out of trouble while he banks the whole company on _Marian_."

It's the first time Garrett's mentioned his twin since he started at Varric's company — which is itself unusual. The pair used to be thick as thieves when they were children, just as Carver and Beth still are; they considered themselves rivals and best friends, each other's haven and each other's motivation. But now, with Marian gone on her trip, it's like Garrett's a single instead of a twin, only concerned about himself and never so much as calling his twin. He says her name with a slight sneer, without any hint of fondness.

"...nothing hurts more than a blow from a b— sibling, from family," Varric murmurs. "This isn't bullshit. Mal's shit at business. Marian would be too. Can't be an inventor of their caliber and run a company, it clashes. Your dad might have tossed this idea at me to keep you out of trouble at first, but what you're doing now isn't bullshit. Why do you think I keep moving you around? Why not just stick you in an office, out of the way, and let you fap about all day?"

"Best I can tell, because you're a sadist who enjoys tormenting me," he grumbles, hobbling over to sit in a chair. Not being able to stand long, to pace, bothers him the most; all his pent-up, restless energy has no outlet, especially now that Fenris isn't taking his calls.

A flicker, an image, implants itself firmly in Varric's mind before he forcibly expels it. _Yeah, last thing I need is that, thanks._ "If I wanted to torment you, I'd have put you in payroll first. Or maybe forced you to keep working with Susan," he says mildly, referring to the legal department intern he'd rescued. And who had not just pounced on Garrett in the cafeteria rather forwardly, but had hinted that he should met her parents. And what colors does he like? Has he ever considered what flavor of wedding cake he'd prefer?

"Every job is shittier than the last," he growls. "Just admit you hate me and we can move on with our lives."

"I will confess to mild, even medium, amusement at some of your reactions but that's all," Varric says gravely. "But... I'll toss you something far less numbers next week, if you're up for a challenge."

"It's not the numbers, it's the pointlessness. The whole job could be replaced by a good algorithm. Most of these jobs could be replaced by automation. Humans aren't fucking machines, there's got to be more to life than cleaning toilets and running numbers nobody will ever look at again."

He pushes himself to his feet, wincing a little as he grabs for his crutch, wanting to pace, pinned in place. Instead, he holds out his free hand, twiddling his fingers as a small mote of ice runs over one, under another, over the next, under the next. A rhythmic motion, soothing.

"Could maybe," Varric allows. "Some of them do need a personal touch, but only rarely. Scrubbing a toilet might seem easy, but trying to program a machine to do it? Hell of a lot harder than it sounds. But even if I could... what would the janitor do then?"

"Something _better_. Javier plays guitar like a pro — he's written some incredibly moving ballads, he could be a musician if he wanted. Maurice is going to business school, nights, he wants to be a project manager, loves organizing people and keeping them on track. This toilet job, it's shit, nobody should have to do it."

_Well, that's interesting..._ "Javier's got something then, but... project manager where? I don't have any openings. I sure don't have enough for even a tenth of my janitorial staff. If I automated even just the payroll and cleaning, I'd put hundreds of people out of work. Even if a third of them managed to make a living with music or other skills like that..." He shakes his head. "You're right that talent should be nurtured. But don't look down on people willing and content enough to do drudge work to keep themselves or their families alive."

"They shouldn't _have_ to. Look, if Kirkwall bought up shares in half the corporations that use our public resources, or even just took ownership of the harbor and charged fees and taxes on imports and exports, that could be channeled into a social fund that pays a universal dividend to every citizen of Kirkwall. It could easily be enough to support a single person going through university, or supplement part-time income from a musician starting their career. This doesn't have to be this way." He leans forward a bit, passion and disgust warring on his face as he talks. It seems he's not just spitballing — he's thought about this some.

"...you ever thought about... refining that? Coming up with a full spiel, a full plan with solid numbers on that idea?" Varric asks quietly.

"If you want the numbers, I can get them to you," he says, looking away, some of the passion dimming. "But there's no way capitalists like you and Dad will ever listen to a pitch like that. The Amell legacy is built on screwing the common person over, and someday, that's going to be me. So like I said. I just want a chance to live my life before I have to tie myself to the machine and become another cog in the great wheel."

"You ever try?" Varric challenges Garrett. "Would I give up what I've built? No. Would I be okay with reducing the lofty height I perch on, if it meant the ground rose instead of the peak crumbling? I could be convinced."

"Fine," he says, a smirk forming. "Assign me to be a strategist next week and I'll get a report on your desk by Friday."

"You'll get a work of that empty, out of the way office, then I have an idea lined up for after. If you're not done, you might be able to carve out some time after that during your regular tasks." He smirks back, eyes flicking towards the entrance, where the sound of voices can be heard. "If nothing else, I'm sure I'll have follow up on your report. I can be very demanding."

Now why does that send a shiver down Garrett's back?

* * *

Garrett's report is.. interesting.

It details a few strategies, most of which revolve around distributing stock to the employees — all employees, including warehouse staff. The most radical of them would remove Varric as an owner, giving him only 33% stock in his own company, which, fuck that. Most schemes would allow the employees to outvote Varric, but only by banding together en masse, making it in practice somewhat difficult for them to change much but allowing them a veto that can serve as a balance on Varric's power. The dividends from the stocks he suggests to be allowed to roll into a pension scheme, but he also allows for them to be paid out — with a review of who is picking that option and why on Varric's desk every quarter so he can re-evaluate their base pay. He also suggests a quarterly profit sharing bonus, allowing employees to feel as though their efforts directly correspond to a rise in their pay rather than being eaten by the capitalist machine.

And yes, that's an exact quote.

His numbers are solid, but his rhetoric is a little rough around the edges — aggressive, overly so, and assuming the reader shares the same values as the writer, which is not always the case. He cuts corners here and there on why, assuming that it's already a given that more pay motivates employees and motivated, well-paid employees are good for profits. He definitely focuses more on the individual people than the profits. But it's not a bad set of options.

That weekend, as Varric reviews the lengthy document, Garrett sees his doctor again — and has the cast taken off, nearly two weeks earlier than predicted. He looks a bit lean and haggard when he comes in Monday morning to get his new assignment, but he walks in on two legs, head held high.

"Sit," Varric says without looking up from the papers on Garrett's desk. He normally gets directed to the new department he'll be working in on Friday evening, but hadn't this week so had gone back to the temp office he was given. Only to find Varric there. "Cast off is great, but don't stress the leg and relapse." The dwarf looks up then, his right eye covered with a patch, one that's sealed to the skin and filled with some mostly clear gel. "Interesting stuff here. I think I like... 'apex resource hoarder.' Thinking about putting it on my cards," he adds, smirking, not sounding offended.

"You're in my chair," protests Garrett, leaning against the doorway. "Leg's fine. Needs exercise. What do you think about the _plan_?"

Varric chuckles a little. "I think it has promise. This week is going to be hot and cold for you, I think. I have about twenty or so hours of videos and lesson plans you need to chew through, plus ten hours of testing. The other ten hours, plus whatever you can trim from the projected time needed for the lesson plans... I want you to double down on the profit sharing idea. I'll give you access to financials to get real numbers. Don't worry if you don't finish this week, I want it solid, not rushed; you can keep on it the following week. Unless you fuck the tests, in which case I'll have to pull you off your project to focus."

"Tests in _what_ ," he growls. "What's the _job_?"

"Sebastian's."

Garrett stares at him, uncomprehending. "You want me to be a... secretary? I don't need training to answer phones and run a calendar, Varric."

"Personal assistant," Varric corrects him. "You need to take messages, but the right way. Know when to bother me, when to just write it down and send in with the daily report. Know who gets to interrupt meetings, when to schedule those meetings, who gets invited. You need to be able to take an order from me, a problem, and know who to hand it to. If I ask for information, who do you get it from? A person? A database? A file? Your own research? Plus you need more familiarity with legalities and company rules, typing and computer skills, familiarity with all senior and c-level employees, enough to be able to greet them by name and title."

Garret blinks at him. "How hard could it be?" he scoffs. "Sure. Fine. Give me your tests."

Varric just snickers.

* * *

**Monday**

The tests, it turns out, are actually really rather difficult, taking up the bulk of Monday. Oh some of the sections are easy: Garrett is very skilled with computers for a mage, and has done most of what he's tested on regularly enough to have no issue. Other parts are harder, like the 'who's who' section which he fails horribly aside from a handful of people he's met already. The legal section is a total wash, given that it's almost purely tax code and privacy laws, which have never been relevant to him before. The job is a buffet of skills and knowledge pools, crossing the entirety of the company save perhaps R&D and even then, the structure and schedule of that department matters. Hard to cram for this sort of thing really, you'd be best served by...

...working for each department for a brief time, as well as having a solid general education. Did that damn dwarf plan all of this from the start? There's no way. Right? Either way, Garrett is forced to accept that he's going to have to spend at least some time on that training crap Varric assigned him if he wants to be able to keep pushing on Equality Project.

**Tuesday**

Garrett comes in early — half an hour before he is scheduled to start. He looks awful, perhaps hungover: bags under his eyes, hair a bit mussed, carrying a Venti coffee that clearly isn't his first since he's a bit jittery already. He sits at the computer, whose screen flickers in warning; he takes a moment, takes a deep breath, and the screen steadies, giving him a login prompt which he quickly bypasses.

He slams back a long pull off his coffee, cracks his knuckles, and boots up the first training video.

Twenty minutes later, Intern Katie — looking a bit jealous — sets a tray on his desk. "Got orders to bring this," she says and leaves without waiting for a reply. Or to be asked questions. On the tray is a pot of tea, a five stack of French toast, a bowl of fruit salad and about a quarter pound of bacon.

Garrett devours the food as though he's never seen food before. The whole time, he doesn't look away from the screen, watching the video training intently.

Sparing thirty seconds to order food down was easy. Carving out thirty minutes to walk down and have time to grill the idiot takes Varric until almost noon, so he'd arranged to have lunch for two sent to Garrett's room. Varric arrives a minute after the food — Korean BBQ over rice and a four liter jug of iced tea — not bothering to knock. "Well, you look less like shite anyway," he observes as he takes a seat in the chair in front of the desk.

Garrett doesn't look up, murmuring to himself under his breath for a few seconds. Then, when he's done with... whatever he's doing... he clicks his mouse, looking up and nodding. "Food? Great. I'm starved."

"Noticed that," Varric observes, pushing over an extra-large bowl of sauced prime beef, vegetables and rice. "The hell happened last night?"

"Didn't sleep. Busy," he adds, pulling away from the computer. And he truly pulls _away_ , giving it a good six feet of space as he picks up his bowl and begins eating. It's easy to see why — he glows faintly while he does, a slight shimmer of blue light in the air around him. Good thing he's nowhere near the electronics nor Varric.

"...are you _healing_ yourself?" Varric says, an edge of worry and anger in his voice, coming half out of his chair.

"No, no," he says, quickly. "Just a little pick-me-up. My friend's better at it, he can take away the mental fatigue, I just get a little less physically tired."

"How?" Varric asks warily, stilling eying the younger man with great care.

"It's just a trick I know. Burn a little mana, make your metabolism more efficient — clears away some of your fatigue. You need a bit more food but you can pull all-nighters and function the next day, no sweat."

"And all you need is extra food?" Varric asks skeptically. "No other costs?"

"Sure. It's like healing, but less intense on the body, less... phenomenal. It's hard trick to learn — like I said, he does it better than I, but he hit me this morning already."

"Just like healing: you mean the really dangerous magic with a ton of side-effects and warnings," Varric says dryly, shaking his head. "Why were you up all night?"

"I had shit to do," he says, shoving another forkful into his mouth immediately after.

"Eloquent. Insightful. Charming."

Garrett shrugs, continuing to eat for a moment before adding, "Studying, some of it. Most of it, really, the part where I would have been sleeping."

"Equality or training or other?" his boss asks curiously, settling back into his chair. Not coming off as his boss though, just... curious.

"Both. Spent the night — after that damn family dinner — with a friend. He had some good ideas about the profit sharing percentages, and I managed to read through most of those legal codes you threw at me for yesterday's test." _And after the fucking._ He finishes off his bowl, putting it down on the desk as the glow shuts off.

Varric tenses a little. "You are keeping the confidentiality clauses in your employment contract in mind, right?"

"Of course. I'm not an idiot, Varric. We talked theory, not numbers. I plan to revise the flat percentage to a sliding scale."

Varric holds up his hands. "Remembering that personal trust isn't the same as professional trust can be hard for people to grasp," he replies. "Glad to hear you have a better grip than some."

_I have a grip alright — on his dick_. He doesn't say any of that aloud, though a hint of a smile plays across his lips, remembering the night before. "Sure. Anyway." He slides back to the computer now that the magic's out of his system, keying back in — and Varric might note he'd locked it before he slid away, even just a few feet with only his boss in the room.

"How's it coming along? Your project?" Again, he sounds more curious than 'checking up on him.'

"It's coming. I want to make sure it's enough to make a difference — nothing more disappointing than being told you'll get something and getting only a third of what you pictured or needed."

Varric raises an eyebrow. "With a cause like you have, you're going to have to be used to disappointment," he cautions Garrett. "But... if your pay-share idea works, then I can convince your dad to try it next year. With us both doing it, most of Kirkwall will drift that way. Could spread from there, might not. And with that under your belt, we can look at some of your other ideas."

"We'll see," he says, then he slides his headphones back on, taps the button, and dives back into training.

**Wednesday**

Varric barely hears a peep out of Garrett; he comes in at the usual time, works through his lunch, and as Varric's packing up to head out, late at night, he notices the light to Garrett's office is still on. Assuming he's just forgotten to shut it off, he heads over, only to find Garrett still sitting at his desk, clearly deeply entranced by whatever the heck he's doing.

_Not a bad look for him really (focused). Still, he's not really recovered yet..._ "You realize it's almost nine or...?"

"Yup," he says, without looking away from the screen. "I texted Dad."

"....okay. You are also aware you don't get overtime pay?"

"Yup." Still staring, he scrolls slightly.

"Okay. When are you going home, Garrett?"

"Soon. Well, not home, probably. But soon."

"Not home?" Varric repeats. "It's almost n- have you eaten?"

"I'll grab food on the way out."

"When did you eat last?" _The cafe closes at seven..._

"Uh. I think I grabbed some cheese fries at lunch, when I got up to pee." _Or was that yesterday?_

Varric stares a long moment. "Cheese fries," he says flatly. Sighing, he hesitates, then pulls out a phone with a grimace. _Three more days and I can use my implants freely again (fucking Jowan, damned blood mage rapist is going to burn)._ "Pizza or dwarven?"

"Cheese fries are the perfect food: protein, dairy, carbs, all in one handy package to-go. I even got chives so it'd have veggies," he adds, still not looking up.

"Chives do not- chives are an herb, a plant, not a vegetable," Varri says with a groan. "Also, while the ones we have here are cheese, with real milk, most of the time? Not so much. Anyway. Pizza or dwarven- you need calories."

"Pizza, then." He clicks through to another screen. "Cheers."

"You're getting real vegetables," Varric grumbles as he sets to ordering a couple of extra larges, sodas and some gardens salads. "How are you getting home?" _Given that you still can't drive with your leg._

"Uber."

_Fair but..._ "Still? You're not clear to drive yet?"

"Not a bike, no."

"So... get a car?" Varric says slowly. "You could just lease if you can't make yourself own something with so many wheels."

"Nah, I'm counting down until I can get my bike."

"...good luck with that," Varric snorts, grinning.

"Fuck you, I'm a grown adult, I can buy what I want." Now he finally pulls back from his screen, but only to scowl at Varric.

"Not if an apex resource hoarder is feeling particularly overly protective father about something."

"Never going to let that go, are you?" he grumbles.

Varric just tosses a business card on the desk. Garrett knows what he's going to see. He _knows_. But damn if he doesn't look anyway.

On one side is the logo for StoneSure Transport. On the other...

╔════════════════════════════════════╗  
║ ║  
║ Varric Thedas, Phd ║  
║ Apex Resource Hoarder, Professional║  
║ ║  
╚════════════════════════════════════╝

**Thursday**

Despite being at the office, far, far too late, Garrett manages to drag himself into the office on time. The morning is boring, as he forces himself to focus on his training crap, but he eventually finishes the last of it. Seeing that it's almost eleven-thirty, he heads down to grab some lunch before getting started on his project. He grabs a tray — lamb curry today, nice — and finds an empty table off to the side so he can browse some reports as he eats. He's not even done his flatbread before he notices that three other people have taken seats around him, despite there being empty tables still: an elf male and two human females, a blond and a redhead.

"Gary right?" The elf asks cheerfully, offering a grin.

"That's me," he chirps, still reading over the paper before him. "What's up?"

"Seen you bouncing around all over the place," the redhead chirps, leaning in and giving Garrett a wink. "Makes a girl curious about the new guy and the best way to get that itch scratched is to go right to the source."

"Lucky for you, I am an expert at scratching itches," he says, finally looking up from his report to grace her with a broad, easy smile.

She grins a little. "Can't help but notice your answer doesn't actually do any scratching," she says slyly.

He leans forward, with a smirk. "I get off at six, and yes, I'm single," he purrs, in a low rumble.

A flash of surprise and pleasure fills the redhead's eyes and her smile shifts to a grin.

"You're single?" the blonde asks with perhaps overdone surprise. "Just a business arrangement then? How'd you pull it off?"

"Dinna!" the redhead hisses, looking annoyed.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. "A business arrangement?"

Dinna rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, guess you can't really go talking about it. But still. Theoretically... I've seen guys just as handsome as you go for the 'casting couch' before with no luck- what makes you special?"

"Women too," the elf says blandly, then smirks when Dinna slaps his shoulder.

"Please, like you didn't make a bid yourself?" she tosses back at him.

Garrett laughs to cover the surge of anger once it clicks. "Want to find out tonight?" he offers, but under the table, his free hand balls into a fist, the other being occupied with a fork.

"Maker," the redhead mumbles. "Please ignore them," she begs. "They're morons. Tactless, crude morons and terrible wingmen."

"Hey! All female here," Dinna protests, thrusting her chest out. Which, to be fair, is bigger than the redhead's comfortable curves. "You're just trying to win the bet."

"I never agreed-"

"Oh sure, you just got up the nerve to come over here right after I proposed the wager by chance?" She snorts. "Not that him taking you out 'to eat' would prove things one way or another anyway you know."

"I just think he's cute," the redhead hisses, then blushes brightly as her eyes dart back to Garrett.

He laughs. "Hate to burst your bubble, ladies, but I'm straight. I do have a king-size, if you both want to come over," he adds, tilting his head toward the blonde.

The redhead's blush intensifies while Dinna scoffs.

"Are you straight-straight or straight-but-elves-are-pretty?" the elf asks, reaching across the table to lay his fingers on Garrett's wrist.

"Dale! What the hell!" That's two names... just missing the one he asked out, sorta.

'Gary' tilts his head, thinking it over. "Never had an elf," he suggests, with a shrug. "But certainly not interested in _dwarves_." He shudders, as if the slur left a bad taste in his mouth. "Ladies are far more refined and gentle than that boor."

"I-" The redhead stutters to a stop, eyes darting to Dale and she blushes for a third time.

"..." Dinna shrugs. "Yeah, can't blame you for that one. Threesome with another girl, hard pass, I'm no dyke, but two guys could be a wild memory to hold onto when I'm older." Both Dale and the redhead tense a little at the casual homophobia, but neither say anything.

"Really?" he asks, leaning forward a bit. "How does that work, exactly? Are you using the old adage that if one of you wears a cock it's not gay?"

The redhead's eyes widen— for just a split-second, Garrett swears he could see amusement— with shock and dismay. The reason for which becomes clear rapidly. "The fuck? Maker, don't be such a sicko. Ugh." Dinna stands and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "I'm right off my lunch, thanks," she say snidely as she flounces off.

"Well, she's going to be an utter horror for the next few days," Dale mutters, giving the redhead a sympathetic look.

"Shame," says Garrett, unrepentant.

Dale gives Garrett a flat look. "All well and good for you to say, it's not you that she's going to make a point of cutting down to prove she's not bent," he says shortly.

"Dale, it's fine," the redhead says softly. "Can't fault him for... not wanting to take Dinna's crap."

"Try HR," he offers. "If she starts in on you. They're sensitive to it now after the Susan debacle. They'll listen." That said, he returns to eating his lunch, worried about getting back to his desk sooner than later.

The redhead winces. "She is HR," she says quietly. "And she has the handbook memorized, she won't cross any lines, just... make things harder than they need to be."

"During work hours anyway," Dale agrees. "I can cover for you if you need to duck out of some socials for the next week or so," he adds to her. A pause. "Susan debacle?"

"Not my business," he says quickly. "Have a good afternoon," he adds, tossing his fork onto his now-empty plate. _One more thing to look into — next week, I think._

The redhead looks disappointed as he leaves. _So much for a date, I suppose. Ah well. Still... Very interesting young man._

**Friday**

Varric was kind enough to let his first attempts stand if they were passing — by _his_ standard of passing of course. Between that and Garrett's honest genius, he manages to finish the lot of them by one in the afternoon. He's still a touch shakey on the legal crap, at least compared to the other subjects, but he does damn fine in everything. Some stupid mistakes, the sort that are clearly him either second guessing himself or overthinking the problem, but nothing major. Certainly nothing that will prevent him from getting a solid top ten percentile grade. Which means he has the entire rest of the day to put the polish to his personal project- which he gets an email about, informing him that he can pick Monday or Tuesday to go over it with Varric and Mister Alan Graves, the Junior CFO. As tempted as he is, Garret eventually replies with a choice of Tuesday, citing that he wants to have a day to settle into his new duties before he presents.

**Saturday**

Garrett slouches in the waiting room, clipboard in hand, filling out forms. So far so good; this form shit is easy. All he has to do is lie.

How many drinks do you have per week? 1-2, socially  
Have you done drugs? Never  
Have you ever drank until you blacked out? Never  
How often do you have unprotected sex? Never  
What is your sexuality? Straight.  
Do you ever feel hopeless? Never  
Do you ever think about dying? Never  
Do you ever feel like your heart is racing or you're speaking too fast? Never  
How would you rate your love life? Great, 10/10  
How would you rate your relationships with your family? Superb  
Does your family have any history of mental illness? Hell if I know.

Lie, lie, lie. Smile, smile, smile. Hand in the forms, browse your phone, get ready for... whatever the fuck this "intake" session is about.

When Garrett is finally waved into his therapist's room, the first thing he spots is the twin mattress on the far wall with a giant dog dish, a hunk of heavy rope and some over-sized dog toys. The wall to his left is a window, one that has a pretty decent view of a well maintained garden complete with pond. The wall to his right is basically made out of bookshelves- not just heavy medical texts or classics either, as he spots more than a few bestsellers there. Mostly mysteries, with a few sci-fi novels mixed in. There's a sofa underneath the window, a love seat next to the door he just came in and a beanbag in front of the bookshelves. Finally, there's a desk near the mattress, where an elderly man with silver-white hair is watching him. As Garrett's attention shifts to him, he notices the long scar on the right side of his face and the deeply weathered look to him, despite the air of refinement he has in clothes and demeanor.

"Good afternoon," he replies, a faint British accent in play. Hard to pin down, maybe a mix? "I am Doctor Lelldorin, though you may call me Father Lelldorin or just Lelldorin if you prefer. Forgive me for not rising, storm season is unkind to old bones," he adds, gesturing at his right knee. Based on the very nice cane hooked onto his desk, it's not just a little ache, not if he's bothered to attach a hook to rest his cane in.

Garrett raises an eyebrow, studying him. _Father_? "They didn't mention you were of the cloth," he says, rapidly re-configuring his expectations. _This is going to be a bloody disaster._

"Retired, technically," he replies easily. "The Church was a haven to a very angry, very confused young man but in time, I could not reconcile faith with dogma. Please, have a seat."

Garrett sits, heavily, folding his arms. "Sure." _Let's do this._

Lelldorin glances down at the clipboard with Garrett's intake, then pulls the papers out and slips them into a nearby trashcan without comment. "What do you hope to get out of these sessions?"

The mage raises an eyebrow. "Took me twenty minutes to fill those out. Why bother wasting my time if you don't need them?"

Lelldorin shrugs. "I'm sure it had some value, as a creative exercise if nothing else. So- what do you wish to get out of these session?"

"You're the doc. You tell me."

_Very uncooperative, very defensive. Very well._ "Well, I could hope for many things. But unlike a regular doctor, a therapist cannot force a patient to be healed. Without your own efforts, there is nothing I can do to help."

"Look, I don't know what my father told you," _though I have some ideas_ , "but he's worried over nothing. I'm fine. I'm just having some fun in my youth, you know. I fucked up, I get that. But sometimes you have to fuck up to learn better. I'm _fine_."

"Oh? What sort of fun did you have?"

"We were out drinking and I guess I got a bit carried away. Rode our bikes out to the club, got into a bit of a race, you know how it is. There was this dog that ran out into the street ahead of me and I crashed my bike. Everyone's fine, even the dog, but it scared my pops."

"The fear of death is a powerful thing. The fear of losing a loved one, a child, to death even more terrifying to most," Lelldorin agrees. "If nothing else, these sessions might reassure him that you will not take such risks again."

"Fair enough. So what do I have to do for that?"

"Well, anything we speak of is considered entirely confidential, save for illegal blood magic and treason — something of a change, but in many ways I approve of Kirkwall's stance on such matters. As such, what we discuss will not get back to your father unless you do it yourself." The ex-priest smiles kindly. "So I suppose the answer to your question is that you continue to come back and do not repeat your fuck up."

"Done." He shrugs. "What now?"

Lelldorin chuckles softly. "Well, for right now, today: how about tea?"

Garrett smirks. _This will be easier than I thought. This guy's a push-over._ "Tea sounds great."

**Monday**

Monday morning, five minutes before Garrett's due to be in, Varric's phone rings — his desk phone, but it goes straight through, bypassing his voicemail.

"Sick," groans Garrett, and he sounds awful, his voice raspy and thin.

Varric tenses, then frowns. "Sick how? Details," he orders crisply.

"Stomach bug," he says instantly — too rapidly. There's a creaking in the background, someone in the room with him moving around.

Without a second thought, Varric starts tracing the call to get a location for Garrett. "How bad? Do you need an ambulance?"

"No," he rasps. "day off."

Garrett's not at home; he's turned off signal tracing, but Varric's able to get into the low level backdoor Malcolm put into his phones, bypassing the supposed off switch to figure out where he is. He's downtown, in an apartment complex, one nowhere near his own flat or his father's estate.

"What happened?" Varric demands. _If I don't get more than 'stomach, day off' then..._

"Been throwing up all morning," he manages, swallowing at the end of it. _Dammit, this hurts... where the fuck is Anders?_ "I'll take my pedialyte," he snarks, trying to downplay his worry.

"...you eat something off or are you ill-ill?" Varric asks, cueing up for a car and driver to be readied as he heads for the elevator. _Probably just being paranoid but..._

"Dunno. Probably dinner last night." _Dammit, leave me alone already_! "Look, I gotta— I gotta go," he croaks.

"Garrett, if you're as bad off as you sound, you shouldn't be alone," Varric tries to reason. "You can pass out if you're... losing fluids this rapidly."

_Fuck._ "I'm with a friend," he manages. "I'll be fine."

Varric's eyes narrow. _A friend? 'F' maybe?_ "Are you sure you're fine?" he asks after a moment, pausing at the door to his office.

"Yeah," he rasps. "I'll just take it easy today. No—"

A voice, in the background, too low to make out until he plays it back after boosting the volume: "—coming, get— damn phone", or something to that effect. Still can't make out the whole sentence, but the voice is unfamiliar: a gruff, low voice, an urgent tone.

"No heroics," he finishes, a little more firmly. "Soup and rest."

"...fine," Varric finally says, hating this not knowing what to do about this. _It feels off but... I don't really have a reason to hound him about it.._ "Take care of yourself. Text me tonight with how you're doing."

"Will do. Thanks."

He hangs up then, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he pushes himself to his feet, gets back into action. _Sorry, Varric. This is more important._

**Tuesday**

Garret makes it in on time, insisting he's feeling so much better, thanks, must have been bad seafood; he heads into his office to prepare for the afternoon's presentation, but after the phones go to voicemail a few times, Varric pops in to discover the kid passed out asleep on his desk, one arm tucked under his head as a pillow.

Varric rubs his forehead. _Seriously_? He considers this for a long moment, then nods. Eyes unfocused for a moment, he orders up a tray of herbal tea, porridge and fruit (apples, bananas and pears, nothing citrus or acidic). He works via implant until the elevator dings, gets the tray and then sets it on Garrett's desk. All that done, he nods, then grabs a large book and slams it down on he edge of the desk.

Garrett jumps, his hands coming up and gathering frost before he spies Varric, stands down. "The fuck?!"

"Enjoy your nap?" Varric asks brightly.

"Maker," he growls, rubbing at his head. He pauses, eyes falling on the tray, and for a moment Varric gets the image of a raptor catching a glimpse of easy prey. Then he shakes his head, rubbing at his temples again, trying to restrain himself. _Maker. Three more hours of sleep and a proper breakfast would have done wonders._

"That's for you," Varric confirms, highly amused by all this. "Couldn't sleep last night I gather?"

"No," he growls, and falls on the food like he hasn't eaten in two days. Which, maybe he didn't — if he was throwing up all Monday...

"Mmmh." Varric frowns a little. "Are you not remembering to eat on the day to day?"

"Ate breakfast," he grunts. _A granola bar counts. I promised Anders I'd eat more when I got to work but I was just so tired..._

Varric stares at Garrett, eyes drifting down to the nearly half eaten tray of food. "What, a mini-muffin?"

"Granola bar," he mutters around a mouthful of fruit. He swallows, shaking his head. "Thanks," he adds.

"Seriously Garrett, you don't eat nearly enough- either that, or you're using too much magic." Healing magic, he doesn't say but clearly means.

"Little of one, little of the other," he admits, polishing off the fruit and diving into the porridge.

"You didn't try to heal your gut trouble, did you?"

"No, no, I'm— it's nothing," he says, quickly.

Varric raises an eyebrow. "You're..?"

"I'm not _stupid_ , I know you can't heal food poisoning," he grumbles.

"Doesn't stop people from trying, especially when they're feeling that wretched," Varric replies, though he looks much relieved. _Peeved and insulted, not guilty._

Garrett finishes the bowl, licking the spoon clean as his stomach growls. _Dammit, Anders, you really overdid it this time. I would have preferred some soreness over being this wrecked._

"...you're still hungry, aren't you? Did you manage to keep _anything_ down yesterday?"

"Not... really," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'll order up another tray- make you get extra at lunch too. You gonna be okay to do this presentation afterwards? Bit late notice, but we can move if we have to..."

"Of course I am," he scoffs. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cherry Blossoms bloom, and young love is spreading; Varric meets the mysterious 'F' at last. Will Garrett manage to bring change to StoneSure? Or will his extracurricular activities get the better of him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yami's Note: I edited song lyrics into the first chapter, just in case ya'll didn't realize this was named for a song. Also, we finished the first draft of New Rules! I estimate 30 chapters, but breaking it up is a second draft task, so I'm still working on that part. We're each doing an editing pass and then handing it off to the beta, then posting the chapters. So they'll be up as fast as we go through the process. I hope you're enjoying the story!

In the spring, in some parts of the world, the Cherry Blossoms bloom, drawing spirits through the Fade with their sweet scent and lovely petals. Mostly this tradition is confined to China, particularly the Nippon district where it originated long before the Chinese Empire conquered the islands, but here in Kirkwall, there's enough Chinese expats that they've planted themselves a grove in the park. The festival isn't too large, but it's big enough to draw a crowd–meaning, big enough for some level of anonymity.

The Maker must be smiling upon Varric, for he's barely spent twenty minutes chatting with the representatives at his company booth (large and impressive as he can make it, same as the other Platinum Sponsors) when he spies Garrett.

_Bored. Bored. Bored. Yes Sallie-Mae, the booth is very pretty (bit overdone but marketing says otherwise I guess). No Sallie-Mae, I don't want to go 'check out the other vendors' with you. Crystal and Glass woman, I've seen whores with more subtlety than you._ Deciding to make it very clear he's not interested in this conversation, much less her, the Chinese expat allows his head to turn, looking around at the passersby. Fairly good crowd all told- two years ago, a pair of restaurants had pushed to increase the tourist angle and Varric had thrown in with them. It hadn't been hard to arrange things so the candle lighting was mostly for those it held meaning for; having all the forms and advertisements for the tickets to be in the park at sundown written only in Mandarin had helped a lot by itself. Shifting his body away from the prattling twit, he hums softly as he checks the latest on projected numbers. _Not bad at— is that—_

Outside of work, Garrett apparently wears black jeans and a leather jacket, plus a t-shirt with some band name Varric doesn't recognize but which his implant helpfully tells him is a punk metal band of some ilk. The bigger change is the accessory: his hand firmly grips the smaller, more delicate hand of a dark-skinned elf lad wearing ripped jeans, a belt with metal studs, and an AC/DC t-shirt (Varric has definitely heard of AC/DC, though he may not recognize their music if you played it out of context). The elf lad's hair is silver-white, cut longer than Garrett's but not long by an stretch; he wears a jean jacket that looks almost out of place, as if he refuses to match Garrett in any way, even the logical choice of coat. His bangs drape into his eyes, and his full lips are pursed in a scowl; he turns his head slightly away from Garrett, as if ashamed or afraid to look at him, and as they draw near he clearly mutters, "— saccharine. What is the _point_?"

"It's fun," says Garrett, in his casual, almost playful tone. "You remember fun, don't you?"

_Huh. Takes after his old man then, I guess. (This would give new life to those rumors). Least the elf has decent taste in music (for an western band anyway). And I think you remember fun a bit too much, Garret._ Varric considers this for a moment, then shrugs. _Fuck it, better excuse than most._ "Thank you Miss Sallie-Mae," he says abruptly, cutting her off. "That will be all- I think they could use your help over with the prize-wheel." Before she can try and regroup, he moves into the crowd, intending to track down Garrett.

Half-listening to Fenris sputter an indignant reply, Garrett scans the crowd, smiling to himself. _This **is** fun, though. And it's not dangerous. Father would be almost proud of me–if it weren't for the whole, man, elf, escaped test subject, thing. Still. I'm glad I talked him into—_

_Oh fuck me._

Garrett's hand tenses on Fenris's, and the elf shuts up, shifting his weight just a bit, trying to both look natural and prepare for danger. Garrett swallows, hating that he's sent Fenris into a fight-or-flight panic just by clumsily allowing his own fear to show, and calls out, loudly, "Mr Thedas! Imagine seeing you here," as he drops Fenris's hand.

"Mister— it's your day off," Varric says with a raised eyebrow. "Slag, you barely remember to call me that most days at work. Enjoying the festival?"

"No," says Fenris darkly, crossing his arms with a scowl.

"Yes, of course," says Garrett loudly, over top of his companion. "Lovely festival you've sponsored here," he adds, smiling broadly. "We were just saying how lovely the trees are this year."

Feeling that slight tingle, the buzz in the back of his head, that signals the extreme proximity of someone else with heavy-duty firewalls and jamming tech protecting high-end implants, Varric smirks. "Enjoy it more if it was on the other side of a screen?" he asks the stranger.

"No," he sneers. "I spent enough time in front of a screen as it is."

"Fenris is a programming savant," crows Garrett, a little too loudly still. "He taught me all I know about digital security."

"What little you managed to retain," the elf adds.

"For a mage, he does rather well," Varric says mildly. "Most of them can't even boot up a computer, much less search through a database or use a shared flex-calendar." _Grumpy little thing, isn't he?_

Fenris wrinkles his nose at the word 'mage'. "Most mages are lazy. It comes of never having to work for anything."

Garrett chuckles, awkwardly. "I'm sure he doesn't want to hear about that," he says, quickly. "Varric might be a–Chinese, but he's good friends with my father."

"I suppose I'm meant to be impressed by his lack of taste, then?"

"Hah! Such a joker, isn't he?" Garrett sounds almost desperate as he turns back to Varric.

"I'd have to take your word for it." Varric shifts his gaze to Garrett, frowning. "Might want to ease back on the sake," he cautions. "Stuff's stronger than beer despite tasting so mellow. Just a bit of warning."

"Sure, sure. We should get going, though," he adds, with a slightly panicky grin. "Good seeing you."

Varric's eyes narrow a little. _That's... an interesting reaction (big slip for Garrett)._ "Yeah, you two go have fun. It was nice meeting you..." Varric trails off.

"Fenris," he supplies, eyes narrowed as he studies Varric's face.

_Fenris? Hmmm (F?)._ "Nice meeting you Fenris," Varric repeats with a nod. "Garrett, enjoy your weekend."

"You got it," he says, and he actually makes finger-guns with both hands, mimicking firing them at Varric as he clucks his cheek. "Come on, Fenris, I heard there's a dunk tank."

* * *

Somehow, Varric doesn't run into Garrett again at the festival; he and his friend manage to keep a low profile, or else they leave shortly thereafter. Nor does he hear from him the rest of the weekend, though that's entirely understandable, given the importance of his Monday morning presentation. After all, it's only in front of the COO, CFO, and CPO. No big deal.

Garrett arrives early, with a huge mug of coffee and bloodshot eyes. Despite his seeming exhaustion–understandable, given the importance of this presentation–he arrives in a three-piece suit, tailored to fit him perfectly, and his hair neatly combed, with some kind of product in it that makes it look slick and polished. His presentation is a smash hit; the COO, a notoriously grumpy bald Haitian, shakes his hand in congratulations. The kid, it seems, has a gift for this sort of thing: a great presentation, solid facts, able to answer all the questions that come up, and he oozes charm like the second coming of Malcolm. Exactly what everyone would expect from Garrett Amell.

He'd been instructed to block off lunch with Varric afterward, for a debriefing on how he'd done. He stops only to refill his coffee mug on his way, sliding into the now-familiar chair in front of Varric's desk. "Well? What's your beef this time?" he jokes, ready to be told how much better he could do if he just tried harder.

Varric looks a little distracted when Garrett first walks in, but is focusing on the younger man in full by the time he sits. "Not much for beef honestly," Varric replies with an even voice and not hint of a smile. "Chicken and pork mostly, maybe some fish or duck. But only fresh fish and wild duck, I can be picky."

Garrett chuckles, spreading his hands wide, palms up. "Come on. Hit me with your best shot, I can take it. What'd I fuck up?"

_Well, that's a softball lob across home plate if ever I saw one (but not right now)_. "Well... if you're insisting on asking for a criticism... you didn't even ask if I might want a coffee while you were over there." He waits a beat. "Oh, and that light blue in your tie? Good, but an emerald would work better for your coloring." Another beat. "Yeah that's pretty much what I got."

He stares for a moment, then grins. "Huh. Praising with faint damnation's a new one, but I'll take it. Thank you."

"Well, you asked for what you did wrong. If you wanted a full analysis from your boss, you should have said that," Varric banters back. "You might have heard things like: your use of the projector was well done; supplement and visuals, tables and images, not lines of text. An aide, not a crutch. Or that your confidence and frankness during the question and answer won you a lot of respect from Samry— Dr. Nolandi to you I suppose. The fact that you flatly admitted to not having any ability to give solid projections for tax knock-on effects because this is entirely new ground for Kirkwall took balls. Doing it the way you did took cleverness and charm. Might have heard that that Este has agreed to support my recommendation." The mandarin shrug a little. "Anyway... about that coffee..."

Garrett laughs, getting to his feet–and the laughter isn't sardonic, it's pleased, thrilled. "Coming right up, boss," he chirps, practically floating out the door to grab another cup of coffee for Varric.

Varric can't help but smile after him, though it's a tainted joy. _Damnit Garrett... if you could just pick, this would be so much easier..._ When he returns, Varric takes the mug with a nod of thanks. "So about our CFO..." he says slowly. "And recommendations... I had a talk with Este Saturday night, finalized a tentative plan I had been working on. Her support was pending your presentation, but we had some downtime while waiting for speeches to drone over so... Anyway. I figured that, as well as you're doing at it, working as my PA isn't really allowing you to flex your ideas, just grow your competency and experience. So I came up with an idea to split your duties, giving you a pair of secretaries that would come on at one and finish out the day with you providing oversight. You'd be expected to finish the more... intricate duties in the morning, then one secretary would cover phones, calendar and so forth while the other assisted you directly with drudge work. This would all be in support of you coming up with a full plan to implement profit sharing here at HQ as a pilot starting next quarter."

"Assuming that you did well enough on your presentation today and nothing went wrong otherwise." He sips his coffee, then tosses a blood test result on the desk. It slides over the wood, stopping almost neatly in front of Garrett. "You managed the former and stone _shatters_ , Garrett! You were so damn close!"

Garrett's heart skips a beat. _What? But I didn't—_

He skims the results, eyes landing on relief on the negative result for lyrium. He skims it a second time, then a third, before his eyes catch on what Varric must be upset about: positive for amphetamines, and a note about abnormal protein levels and caffeine levels.

"The hell?" he demands. "I came up negative. You're only meant to be testing for _lyrium_."

"No, you agreed to taking weekly blood tests and not taking lyrium as part of a personal deal. Not taking _any_ fucking illegal drugs is part of the _employee contract you signed_ ," Varric snaps. He stabs the paper with one finger. "That right there? Grounds for termination— fuck, I'm technically obligated to report you to the police for violating your parole."

"How the hell am I supposed to do my damn job then?! It's common fucking knowledge, everyone takes fucking speed when they hit crunch time, or does coke or some shit. I bet if you tested everyone in the upper levels you'd find plenty. It's not like it's anything fucking _serious_."

"Not in my company," Varric hisses, rising to his feet. "You think I was able to arrange for in-house weekly blood tests so easily... how? Everyone Class Three and down takes them twice a month, with a random check once a quarter. I will _not_ fucking tolerate that shit in those I trust. You want to have a few drinks? Enjoy! Cigs, tobacco or weed? As long as you're not high on work hours, enjoy! Anything else, you better have a prescription from a company vetted doctor or I will have your ass out on the street by day's end."

"Then you might as well fire me now! This is part of the Garrett Hawke package–you want the best I can do, that includes speed and the occasional vial of blue. If you want me sober, you give up on ever seeing what you saw in that room today. What's the fucking point? Do you want the best or not?!"

"If you can only do that while high then... fuck it. I'd rather have ninety percent. Or eighty. Because you on blue or meth or whatever shit you're poisoning yourself with isn't your best. It's a bridge over rapids with rotting mortar, just waiting for a disaster."

"This is who I _am_. This is the whole package! I outgrew Red Bull freshman year. Sober me is nothing, is useless! I'd rather be fired and still myself than constantly disappoint people trying to be something I'm not."

"This is the first test you failed," Varric says softly. "Were you clean before this week?"

"I— mostly," he says, taking a deep breath. "I had some other shit going on. But there's no way, no way in hell, I would have gotten that presentation done without a pick-me-up last week. I averaged maybe three hours a night sleep. I'm clean now–I crashed over the weekend, slept off the last of it, because I didn't want to give the presentation high. But I needed it then and I'll need it again."

Varric stares a moment. "Why- why didn't you just tell me you wanted more time? You're working nine to ten hours a day; Garrett, what on earth are you doing that's taking up all your time?"

His expression darkens briefly. "Stuff," he says, crossing his arms. "There's a lot of shit going on in my life. Shit that isn't relevant to the conversation at hand."

"How are the things that are leading you to take hard drugs not relevant to our discussion about you not taking hard drugs?" Varric demands.

"Because it's nothing you need to be involved in or concerned about," he snaps. "Surprise surprise, I have a private life, with friends and everything! I just don't want you or my dad poking around in my personal life, is that too much to ask?!"

"Yes," Varric says bluntly. "Because we think it's too much for you to ask us to just _watch_ as you hurt yourself!"

"Who am I hurting?! Nobody! Nothing's gone wrong, Varric, you're being over-cautious. It's just speed!"

"Yes you are! You almost killed little Dylan's dog, and him for that matter. And what about you? It's hurting you! That shite doesn't just flush out, Garrett, it's a toxin. It leaves marks, it leaves scars."

"That was the _blue_ , I stopped that shit," he snarls. "You can't live your whole life terrified something's going to go wrong!"

"And you just said you needed 'the blue' to be what you think we want from you," Varric snaps back.

Garrett pauses, then, panting a little, staring at Varric. "Well–maybe I can do without the blue. But I'm not going to rule out things that might work instead just because you're too much of a coward. The speed is non-negotiable. That's the shit I _really_ need."

"No," Varric says simply. "You don't." He studies Garrett for a long moment. "...how about a wager?"

"...What sort of wager?" he asks, slowly.

"Two months, no drugs of any kind that don't come a vetted doctor. At the end of that, we have Este do a check-in on the project," Varric proposes.

"And what, she decides I can't deliver on my promises and everyone's fucking disappointed in me again? No thanks."

"Hence two months, not the four and change that's the project deadline," Varric explains. "If it's not going well, that gives more than two months to course correct." He thinks a moment, then offers, "and as part of that, if the evaluation goes poorly, I'll make a show of giving you Tuesdays and Thursdays to work on it full-time, as it was clearly my overloading you that's causing the delays and such."

Garrett takes a deep breath, then another. "You'll regret it," he warns. "Better toss in an out about if it's clearly going badly, we can pull the plug early. But... it seems reasonable." A pause. "If we do this, you won't tell my father about the drug test. Or the cops."

"If you pull it off, I won't tell your dad. The cops can go fuck themselves," Varric says, waving it off. "If you can't pull it off, you start a rehab program. Nothing official, just... doing the steps without the paperwork."

"Wait, how do you mean can't pull it off–flub the project or start using again?"

"Either. Success is defined as you getting a passing eval from Este while clean the entire time. Break either of those conditions and you've failed the wager. I cover for you, your dad gets informed and you go into the off the books rehab. Pull it off... your dad doesn't need to know about your little slip here and you realize that you don't need that shite to be a success." He hums thoughtfully. "Not really so much a wager, come to think of it. More of a dare or challenge I guess."

"Varric. If I can't do my job without speed, I don't need rehab, I need _speed_. You've set it up so there's no outcome where I get to keep on how I am." He shakes his head. "If I can't kick the speed, then I'm an addict and I need help. But I know I can kick it. That's no problem. It's not much of a wager if you can't ever be _wrong_."

_Just said it wasn't really a wager, it was a challenge._ "I was aware of how the outcomes are structured," Varric says blandly. "If you can't do your job without speed, get better at it. You won't always have speed, you won't always be able to take it. It's a poison, Garrett. Full stop. Has some perks, sure, but it's poison."

"It isn't! _You're_ just a paranoid old coot who can't stand that I'm better than you were at my age!"

"You can't be—" Varric takes a slow breath. _How old does he think I am?_ "When I was your age," he says carefully, "I was already years into making the company you're working for. And no, your father never loaned me a dime to do it. He offered, I refused. I've no doubt he helped around the edges, granted. But that's besides the point. Meth is poisonous. That's not opinion, it's statistics."

"It's literally not. It's just a stimulant. Powerful, addictive, but the same as fucking caffeine."

Varric stares. "By your Maker's ass, you actually believe that," Varric says with disbelief. "Okay. Okay. How much proof would convince you?"

"Annotate which part of the chemical structure is literal poison," he snaps.

"For one, oxygen is poisonous if you use it improperly, so if you want to get into a technicality battle..." The dwarf shakes his head. "But my point is that you're using a drug you're not trained to use and it's poisoning your _life_." _And your body but that's an opinion, one most (fools) don't share._ "It's a damn wonder you're as functional as you are. Two hard drugs in less than six months, plus copious amounts of alcohol."

" _One time_ I did blue. That's all! And it was the one time I fucked up. I've been doing meth for _years_ , Varric, and I've made a pretty damn good life for myself besides the one accident. One time someone drives drunk doesn't make alcohol poison!"

_No, alcohol being what it is makes it a poison._ The dwarf drinks, but never more than manners or friendship requires, and he always takes DMH, which breaks down alcohol rapidly. Doesn't make one immune, but it works well enough to either take the edge off a night out or to completely neutralize a tumbler of whisky sipped slow. "One time too many. Garrett, you almost killed a child. The only reason you didn't, the _only_ reason, is that he dodged. That's it. The only thing preventing you from being a child killer is a little boy's relaxes. How is that not a fucking problem?" he demands.

"I haven't done blue since, and I never will again," he snaps. "I told you, I keep fucking telling you. But you don't trust me. Do you trust anyone? Or are you just so fucking paranoid you imagine everyone's lying all the time?!"

"It's not about— it's not about it being blue or meth or— Garrett, you don't need that shit! You're risking your life, the lives of others, every time you take it and you don't even need it!" Varric takes a slow breath. "You don't need that stuff to be good enough. I'm willing to wager on that; why aren't you?"

"Because at the end of it, no matter what I do, you'll come away smug, saying you were right all along. No. If I do this and I fuck up this project–literally the one thing I'm working my ass off to make come true–I don't go to rehab and you don't tell my dad, at the very fucking least."

"Too much ass evidently," Varric mutters bitingly. "Fine. How about... if you pull it off, I burn the test, you go on with the project and... fuck, something else. You still looking for a new bike?"

"I am," the mage concedes, "but there's such a vanishingly small chance I'll pull it off–the last thing I want is to tank this project and my social life all at once."

"Well, if you do, then I'll not only put... forty grand towards a new bike for you, I'll even make the actual purchase for you and have it shipped here, assuming you don't want it off a local lot. On the other hand... if you just flop, then we have a second outcome: you get the two days dedicated to your project because I'm pushing you too hard and I bury the test. But. But if you can't stay clean–meaning no drugs that don't come from a doctor–then you get the two days but I also share the test with Mal and you agree to a six week rehab program. Or something around that length and such, I'll trust your word that you'll work with us on it and not insist on picking one out now."

Garrett stares at him a moment, then nods, slowly. "If I can't stay clean, I need more help than I thought. So that's fine. If it flops, we'll deal with it then. Agreed."

* * *

The next month is more difficult than Garrett suspected–perhaps more difficult than Varric expected. There are days Garrett is falling asleep at his desk. He puts on some weight, implying he was using more often than he indicated; he's always been a bit scrawny, with lean muscle and little body fat, but now he bulks out a little, his body retaining more nutrients now that it's not constantly being pushed to the limits. There are days he comes in late, with bags under his eyes, but fully alert; he doesn't fail a blood test, but every now and then on those days Varric catches him glowing at lunch. He gets by. He doesn't use any substances other than alcohol, and he doesn't show up drunk to work, making him no worse than any other employee in that regard.

But he does better than Garrett would have given himself credit for. He has days where he can't finish all the work on his plate, days where he knows he needs to work on things but he just can't get the motivation and energy together. But he has days where he's alright, days where he's able to focus and push through whatever background exhaustion he has. The project comes together, and so does a side project he ends up taking on, a restructuring of part of the org chart. He implements a more efficient filing system when one of the secretaries just can't seem to keep the old one straight. And best of all, he dazzles clients, sending them away happier when he has to break bad news than Seb ever did. Varric begins bringing him on lunch meetings, introducing him as his shadow, letting him see how Varric handles business over lunch.

* * *

One such lunch date ends in flames, the client storming out halfway through the meal–and not because of anything Garrett said. The guy was pissed to begin with, and he just wanted to pick a fight on Varric's dime, hence the meeting being at a high-end sushi bar. Varric, for all his learning over the years, is a stubborn old dwarf at heart, and he'd been willing to argue the man right into canceling his (way too small to be worth it) contract. This sort of thing would normally leave him disgruntled and irritable all afternoon; he never likes losing, let alone being suckered into losing.

Garrett slips away from the table, returning a moment later with a bottle of sake and two cups. "A toast: to the door, for smacking his ass on the way out," he proposes, sliding back into his seat and snagging another plate of salmon nigiri off the conveyor belt.

Varric shifts his glare to Garrett, too pissed to really appreciate the well done jape. "Very funny," he mutters, leaning back and folding his arms. _Ass! Asshole and fuck-up. How the fuck did— why would you— you know (are) better (than that) damnit. Little pissant of a client, this was a stupid— just because you were three weeks from your personal best on not losing any contracts (two years, four months, eight days), you tried to—_ Scowling, tries to focus on the people- well, person- around him. "You can clock out of the day if you want, no sense in heading back for two hours," he grunts.

"Good. Then we have time for a long lunch." He smiles, raising the sake to his lips and having a sip. "So. Eight inches? Ten?"

"...how many of those have you had?" Varric asks, distracted.

"No, no, you're meant to ask me what I'm measuring. The joke won't work if you don't play along."

"Oh, sorry, that was just fuck random. Alright: what's eight inches?"

His grin broadens. "The stick up Warren's ass."

Varric groans softly. "That one is so damn old, it predates fucking runes. You should be ashamed of yourself." Despite his words, his lips quirk a little.

"So which is a more rotten corpse: that joke or Warren's sense of humor?"

"As imaginary figments can't rot, that joke," Varric says with a completely straight face. Was that a joke? It has to be, but... his poker face is fan-damn-tastic.

"Hah!" he laughs, taking another sip of his sake. "I'll tell you, when he stood up like that? I thought he might be choking on something. I was wondering if it's unethical to let him suffer a bit before I Heimliched him. Figured I'd have to settle for cracking a rib 'on accident'. Ass."

Varric cocks his head to the side, then shrugs. "Ethical is debatable of course, but you're not _legally_ required to assist someone in such a situation." He takes a very small sip of sake. "I may have looked it up at some point."

"Good to know," he chuckles. "Maker. Do you think he's married? I can't imagine anyone kissing that ugly mug, can you? Maybe he ordered one of those Russian Brides."

"Childhood sourheart," Varric answers.

Garrett makes a face. "Maker. I guess it's true–golddiggers start young."

"No, same age and tax bracket and all that, he just... well, they had an heir less than six months after they 'eloped out of young love.' So."

"Aaah. So he's skilled at the old mickey, huh? I suppose it fits him. Used to getting what he wants." He wrinkles his nose. "His poor wife. Looking at that ugly face every day."

"Something like that," Varric says with a soft laugh. "From what I gather, the pair... have found other sources of solace." He pauses, then adds, "less confirmed is that said solace is, ah, shared and tutors their second child during the day."

He shudders. "I suppose it takes all sorts, but what self-respecting faggot's going to want to wake up next to him either?"

Varric stiffens. "I would... ask that you don't use that slur around me, thank you," he says in a cool tone.

"Shit, sorry. My bad entirely," he says–perhaps the most earnest apology Varric's heard from him to date.

"...thank you," he says after a moment.

"Yeah, sure. No problem." He pauses, then, glancing down at his drink. "I have... friends that are like that. Gay, I mean. Sometimes I forget not everyone's comfortable with reclaimed slurs."

"...given that I call myself dwarven, I do understand the idea," Varric says slowly. "But it's not the same coming from someone that isn't..." He glances at Garrett. "Not just part of the group, but willing to acknowledge being part of that group."

"I mean, I'm straight as a board, don't get me wrong," he says quickly. "I just can't really blame a guy for fancying something as objectively wonderful as my cock. It's just, I don't know... sometimes I forget you're my boss."

"...I _did_ say we were off the clock," Varric says after a short pause, carefully not thinking about much of the rest of what Garrett had just said.

"Sure, but that doesn't exactly make us _friends_." He shakes his head. "I just, I don't know. I can't help but see everyone as a potential friend. You're a good guy, Varric, even if you're a pain in the ass."

"Thank you for... praising with faint damnation," Varric replies with a snort.

"Anything for my favorite apex resource hoarder," he replies, with a smirk.

* * *

Having spent the lunch hour together, drinking and laughing, makes the rest of the week go easier, somehow. As if they've crossed some threshold, started moving away from being something like uncle and nephew to something like equals, people who could grab a beer together once in a while and not regret the time spent.

That's why it's a shock when, the next week, Garrett goes home at lunch on Thursday, citing a stomachache. He emails Varric in the middle of the night calling out sick Friday, insisting he won't be likely to recover in time, but he should be in Monday no problem.

Which would be great if his father didn't call Varric on Saturday morning at six AM. "Varric, it's Mal. Tell me you know where my son is?"

"...." There's a far too long moment of silence. "What?" _Dust and ash, the fuc- six?_ "Tired. Explain?"

"My _son_ , Varric. Where is Garrett? He's not home, and he's not at his flat–he's not answering his phone, replying to texts, I even tried that new app, whatever it is. That secure one, Wire. Nothing. Tell me he's with you, or, or he told you where he's going." Malcolm's speaking too rapidly, with too much heat. Is he panicking? This sounds like panic.

The dwarf blinks rapidly, head swiftly clearing from the haze of less than two hours of sleep after an all-nighter working on a personal project. He's supposed to be off today so he'd planned to sleep in, but... "Called off work. Thursday afternoon, during lunch. Stomach troubles. Emailed Friday morning, early am, to call off again. Said back on Monday for sure. Was gonna talk to him about his eating habits, second time in four months he's gotten–or claimed to have gotten–food poisoning."

"Dammit," he curses. "He missed Family Dinner last night, no word or anything. Came over to check on him and he's not home–didn't sleep in his bed, his jacket and laptop are gone, and so is the staff he wanted for a graduation present in high school. If he was sick he would be here. Where else would he go?"

"His friend's place maybe?" Varric mutters, pulling up the (still rather short) bio he'd started on Fenris. "Met at the address I'm sending you. Best lead I have."

_He has friends? More surprisingly, Varric knows his friends?_ "Alright. That's not far, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The apartment building is considerably less affluent a building than the one Garrett leases. The place is run-down, the landlord only doing the bare minimum of maintenance. The property manager doesn't own the place, which is great for Varric's purposes; ten minutes and five hundred dollars gets them the exact apartment rented to "the white-haired elf", also known as Fenris Ulric. When they pound on his door, however, he's not home either.

Another hundred gets the property manager to unlock the door for them, and another two hundred reveals Fenris doesn't talk to anyone but he's pretty sure dude is buying drugs, his dealer comes over every couple weeks. Not that it's any of the guy's business, of course.

The apartment is... well, the most charitable interpretation is that there's been a kidnapping and the kidnappers trashed the place. There's things crammed into every corner, a dearth of furniture–what's there is cheap, college-dorm stuff–and just piles of things on the floor. Trash bags crammed into corners. Papers tossed casually onto the floor: junk mail, flyers, et cetera. The fridge is full of food, mostly leftover carry-out, and the freezer is full of microwave meals, so someone definitely lives here. It's a studio, so the bed is crammed into a corner: a real bed, not just a mattress on the floor, at least, and it's unmade but there's a clear area near it, as if that's the only area worth cleaning.

Nobody's here. There's no evidence of Garrett, either. But there's a laptop open on the table, fighting for space among the trash, and while the screen is locked, it's on so the hard drive is decrypted. Sloppy–no 'security expert' would go to the trouble of encrypting the disk at rest and not shut down the computer when it's not in use. There's also, Malcolm can't help but note, an open value-pack of condoms on the particle-board dresser beside the bed.

Varric's implants manage to get into the computer, barely, using a backdoor in the OS to bypass the fingerprint reader. Most of the juicy stuff is protected by strong passwords, two-factor auth to some device he doesn't have, but the lad's email client was open. There's four accounts linked in the software, but only one was open; the others require a password to get into. And this email...

Well if they wanted proof Garrett's in this man's life, it's here, in digital form. There's emails back and forth, mostly short terse replies from Fenris to longer missives from Garrett. Plans to meet up. 'How was your day'. 'Did you remember to eat?' 'Yes.' 'Vegetables?' 'Mushrooms.' 'Pizza isn't real food'. Just... stuff. Life, happening, between the two of them, where they intersect.

No plans to meet up this weekend. No explanation for where Garrett's gone. Maybe it's in one of the other emails, or in his Wire app, or... maybe it's nowhere. Maybe this has nothing to do with Fenris-fake-name with the strong email encryption.

_Unless this 'Fenris' is the bastard son of Rowling, that's totally an alias. Bit free with it at the festival (hostile, aggressive)._ "There's not much here I can use," Varric finally says with a sigh. "I'm planting trackers in everything they'll fit in without spooking so if he sends any messages, we'll know but..."

"But wherever he is, he's likely with my son, and we have no idea where that might be." Malcolm takes a deep breath, covering his face with one hand as he thinks. "I'm calling the police," he says finally. "I'd rather he end up in jail than— if he's somewhere in a ditch, bleeding, I couldn't live with myself if I didn't— damn him, for doing this to me!"

"Wait," Varric says swiftly. "Give him–us–till Sunday midnight. I can put out word, we can both tap our security forces." He winces, looking around. "I mean... odds are, he's off... ah, having a wild weekend with evidently his boyfriend. He... mentioned having a lot of gay friends but was very quick to say he's straight. If he's in the closet but hard, then..." _He might be going to ground for a date._

"The _last_ time he went for a covert date, he ended up driving drunk and nearly died. I can't wait that long, Varric, I just can't–he didn't even bother lying to me, he just... vanished!"

"Omission is better than..." He trails off, sighing as he gestures a surrender. "Tonight then. If there's no contact by tonight and our feelers can't find anything... Then we'll declare him missing. Need to wait forty-eight hours anyway."

"I haven't seen him since Wednesday, Maker's honest truth," Mal replies, but he knows it's futile even as he says it. He sighs, then, slumping against the wall, covering his face. "Maker," he breathes. "You're lucky you don't have children." A dark look crosses Varric's face and he turns back to the computer to fiddle with it as he tries not to react to that unintended jab. "Sorry," Mal adds a moment later. "That was— I just meant, you're lucky you've never had to go through this, let alone twice. Nobody should have to lose—" His voice cracks, and he shudders, taking a deep breath. "Maker. I'm all out of sorts today."

"...it's fine, Mal," Varric says softly, still prodding at the computer to see if he can pry open any sort of browser or download history. "Worried about him too, though. Not like... I don't exactly have an abundance of friends so I could be fine with losing one."

There's only a few hours worth; it's set to remove history on closing the browser, and as mentioned, he routinely shuts the laptop off. That history includes browsing job requests on a freelance programming marketplace, some random google searches relating to the news, some gay porn, some reddit threads... nothing out of the ordinary.

"How could he do this? How could he be so thoughtless? He _knows_ , he has to know he scared us both to death last time... I don't want him to be hurt but I'd almost rather–regardless, when we get him back I'm locking him in his room for the next month."

"He's of age Mal," Varric says absently, now getting determined to dig out something due to the challenge. Data's never actually destroyed after all, just... made harder to get to. Well, unless you overwrite it a few times, but... _Most people aren't that dedicated (or paranoid (hey, shut up))._

"Fuck that," Mal snarls. "He's still my _son_. If he can't act like an adult, he shouldn't be treated like one!"

It seems Fenris zeroes out his storage space routinely–but since he didn't shut down, some of it's not zeroed yet. Hard to tell what he's looking at, since many of the headers have been destroyed, but he does manage to find something: a deleted email draft from one of the other accounts, something he didn't send and so removed, drafted a week ago but not deleted until this morning:

_My supply's getting low. Can we meet this weekend? Or are you too busy with your presentation planning?_

_Well... shite. Okay, let's bury that a little better, just in case, shall we?_ "And if you try and treat him like a prisoner, you're going to lose him even more surely than death."

Malcolm begins pacing, needing to move, to do _something_. It's not quite enough; there's a telltale stirring in the air, a sense of gathering power, a storm on the horizon, as his magic rises unbidden. "Nothing's more final than death," he growls. "He might hate me forever, but he'll be alive. This isn't kid stuff, I can't just give him space to find his way if his way is dead! I gave him more than enough rope and he's decided to—" Mal cuts off again, not only because of the grim metaphor, but because something naggles at the edge of his consciousness.

"Mal! Lock it down before you fry this thing," Varric snaps.

Mal stops, taking a deep breath–and hesitates, as the nagging sensation vanishes. "Stand back," he warns, before closing his eyes, taking another deep breath, and listening to the room.

"...Did you bring a crowbar," he asks a moment later, and his voice is a low, firm hum. To his own ears it's nearly inaudible–though he suspects it's fine to Varric, since he can't hear the singing that nearly drowns it out.

"...I have a carbon-fiber collapsible baton," Varric says slowly. Which would work for prying but not so much for bashing.

Mal holds out his hand absently, moving toward the bed. There's an air of determination in his movements, as well as predation, like a big cat stalking a mouse it can smell hiding under the snow. He squats, his movements slow and deliberate, and peers under the bed, running his hand along the floorboards.

When he finds what he's looking for, it turns out he doesn't need the baton. His fingers catch, and he fiddles with the bump for a moment before it clicks open, some of the floor rising up. He lifts the hatch out of the way, revealing a small crawlspace, access to some wiring and a breaker box set into the wall behind the bed...

And a little nest, with three vials of cloudy blue liquid inside. Mal lifts out the other item, a strip of photographs from a booth, showing Fenris and Garrett; his son has his arm around the elf, who is pouting something fierce, but Garrett is laughing, happy.

Mal stares down at the photo, at the vials, his breath catching in his throat.

"Fenris has some pretty high-grade implants for a hybrid," Varric says quietly. "Hopefully... hopefully that lyrium is his. Probably where and why Garrett tried it." He studies the photos carefully, trying to think and not feel. "I'm going to turn over the name and image to some of my deep-sniffers, see what they can dig up on this Fenris. I'll try and play it as just... pandering to his overprotective father," _which is not entirely a lie_ , "unless they found a very good reason to do otherwise."

"..Implants?" says Mal quietly. "In an elf?"

"I could feel his firewalls and such, even without trying to actively interphase," Varric confirms. "Rare for an elf-blood, sure, but..." He shrugs a little. "Seemed to have a chip on his shoulder about mages, even though he pretended to mind a lot more than he actually did about holding Garrett's hand." He ignores the annoyance that thought invokes.

Malcolm stares at the photo for a long moment, trying to force his brain to memorize the face. When he speaks, his voice is hard, cruel–something Varric's only heard extremely rarely during their friendship.

"Find this man. If my son doesn't come home alive, he'll be the one I want to ask why."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's gone missing, just after calling out sick. Can Varric and Malcolm find him before he gets in worse trouble? And what does the mysterious implanted elf Fenris have to do with it? Is he friend or foe?

Varric and Malcolm each send out their people, quietly, trying to find Garrett before a fuss can be made. They discover Leandra's yacht is missing; they can't get the harbormaster involved without declaring it stolen, but since the security system wasn't triggered it was probably someone with the bypass codes. Or a hacker.

The GPS system on the boat has been disabled; Garrett's phone is turned off or otherwise unable to be tracked as well. At something like four in the morning Sunday morning, four hours before they've agreed to get the police involved, Mal and Varric both receive an email, a reply to one of Mal's increasingly frantic missives:

> **From** : Garrett Hawke [PGP Signature Verified]  
> Sorry, I've been real sick. Crashing with a friend. Fever's gone now, so I should be okay to come in Monday, after I get some sleep. I'll do family dinner Monday night?  
> 

A quick check with the tap he'd put into the marina's security cam–and Varric had already recommended that Mal complain about how shitty the security is, the cameras aren't even live, they take snaps every fifteen minutes for stone's sake–reveals that the yacht is back. Going backwards shows that it's been back for an hour or so before the emails went out, but the snaps don't show any movement. Either the people on it were lucky, or they knew that the cameras were on a schedule, as they completely avoided getting spotted. Checking the GPS in Garrett's phone shows it–and thus hopefully him–at his own flat again. Varric sends an email to Mal, saying he's going over to check on Garrett and will report in what he finds. Sure, he figures Mal will be right along anyway, like as not, but at least this gives him a chance to calm down a little, knowing that his son is back and his friend is already there handling things.

As he parks, he spies two figures getting into a vehicle: a redheaded man and a brunette woman. Might be unrelated, but given it's an odd time of the morning, might be related to Garrett's getting back.

He doesn't see the blond boy with the big hat, sitting on the wall watching him enter the gate. Nobody sees the blond boy. Nobody ever sees the blond boy.

Yanking out his PDA, Varric manages to snag a blurry picture of the pair, getting a profile of the female and... the back of the guy's head. Damn. Still, could be useful for confirming a match later. "Probably not even related but... fuck, of course it is," he mutters, getting a better picture of the car, including the plate. That done, he kills the engine and heads up.

When he knocks on the door, it's Fenris that answers; his white tank top is stained in blood, and he's got fresh stitches in his face, blood in his white hair, and a scowl on his lips. "What did you–you're not the mage," he begins, the first half a sneer, the back half surprised. On instinct he reaches to shut the door.

Varric steps forward, getting his foot against the door. "Correct, not _the_ mage nor _a_ mage. I'll be seeing Garrett now, though."

"No," says Fenris, in a low growl–and as he brings his hand into view, there's a knife in it. A serious one, several inches long and well balanced for his hand. "Step back."

"Who's there?" The voice is Garrett's, but strained, the weak, raspy version of his voice Varric had heard on the phone last time he 'called in sick'.

"Varric," the dwarf calls back in a carrying voice, never taking his eyes off Fenris. He slips the carbon baton out of his sleeve and into his grip, though he doesn't extend it. Yet.

"Dammit," Garrett croaks. "Fen, let him in. Fuck. At least don't stab him."

Fenris doesn't move, saying instead in a menacing yet louder voice, "I do not believe he should be here."

"Yeah but I'm fired if you stab him and either way he'll tell my dad. Fuck."

"Sorta already have- he's probably still asleep but he'll be jetting here as fast as his car allows as soon as he sees your email. And mine, though I'm hoping knowing I'm already here lets him throttle back the panic a few hairs at least," Varric says, still eying Fenris warily.

"Fine," says Fenris, after a moment, as he steps back from the doorway. "Then he can sit with you instead." He reaches for the coatrack, for the jacket he was wearing at the sakura festival, which neatly puts him out of Varric's way so the dwarf can enter.

Garrett is mostly laying on the couch, on top of some towels to try and stop the blood from soaking into the cheap fabric. He's got a hand pressed to his bandaged abdomen, his chest bare, his breathing labored. The bandages are bloody, but not totally soaked through. His hand is covered in blood, likely from before the bandaging. There's a first aid kit spread across the coffee table, clearly having been used recently.

Garrett manages a weak smile, trying to look less like death, but it does nothing for the pale tone to his skin. "Hey, boss, long time no see."

"The fuck did you eat that does–" Varric shakes his head. "Nope, too tired for it. You look like shit." Without asking, he heads for the closest to find more towels or sheets to clean up.

"And you look splendid, as always," he quips. "I'll be fine. Just waiting for the McDonald's to open so I can eat something."

Varric rolls his eyes. "Hold on," he grumbles, gaze going distant as he grabs towels. "How deep? How long?"

"It's fine. I had a doctor take a look. Going to order about two dozen hamburgers and sleep it off. Fen, don't go."

Fenris has finished pulling on his coat, grabbing his satchel. "You don't need me. And you don't want me meeting your father. I'll call later." He hesitates a moment, then adds, "Don't die."

"I'm having someone hit an all night store to get a case of protein shakes and whatever hot food they have to-go," Varric says absently. "You do realize it's... atypical, to say the least, to 'sleep off' stab wounds, right?"

"I know what I'm doing," Garret replies, and there's a bit of irritation in his voice. At the situation, the implication, or the fact that Fenris is slipping out the door? Even he'd be hard-pressed to say.

"I'm not contesting that you are unaware of what actions you're taking," Varric says soothingly.

"I mean I–" He interrupts himself with a hiss of pain, having started to shift forward. He presses at his wound, resting back against the couch again. "Dammit. I didn't want you to see me like this."

"I imagine not, no," Varric says sourly, glaring at Garrett as he comes over. "Lift your hand a moment and let me take a look."

"It's _fine_ ," he growls. "Dammit. How long until those shakes get here? I might try to heal it first, eat second."

"Do you not have anything in the flat?" _Even Mal used to keep food around the house..._

"Not exactly up for cooking," he admits, with a wan smile.

Varric gives him a flat look, then glances upwards. "I suppose 'Maker' doesn't imply any degree of skill at making things, just success," he mutters, heading for the kitchen. "You're not the only one present," he adds over his shoulder.

"Thanks," he calls, closing his eyes briefly. _Whatever. So long as I get food._

Garrett's kitchen is stocked with beer and Red Bull, of course, but he's got some chicken on hand, some rice, some pasta, some frozen meatballs. It seems he does cook, at least from time to time. There's nuts and trail mix on hand, too, though that's not going to do much against healing-hunger. Varric still brings it out, figuring he can snack while things cook. That done, he starts boiling water and preheating the tiny ass oven. "What the fuck happened?" he calls from the kitchen.

"An accident," he says, in between handfuls of trail mix.

"How do you _accidently_ get gutted and beaten?"

"Talent."

"Enlighten this unskilled and–nope, still not up for it. Explain to me or explain to your dad when he comes with very large men with no necks to put you into time-out."

"I vote neither," Garrett mutters, still eating. _How little can I get away with, do you think–if I try to heal now I might be able to take the edge off, a little._ He glances over the bar, evaluating Varric, trying to figure out how much attention he's paying.

"Still waiting," Varric says, tossing a glare over his shoulder as he puts meatballs into a dish to nuke. _Pour sauce over them, get something resembling vegetables into the idiot_. "Seriously, Mal is utterly freaked right now. If you have shit still flapping in the wind, the more I can help you clean up or... neaten, the better."

Garrett scoffs. "Meaning you want credit for spilling my secrets to my father. I'll manage."

"Still doesn't know about your meth habit," Varric says, voice just loud enough to be heard. "Even despite this little... escapade."

Garrett pauses, thinking that over as he chews, swallows. Finally, he replies, "this is too big. And not all of it's mine to tell. But... a friend was in trouble. I had to help. It went badly but we pulled it off. I'll be fine by Monday, if you could keep Dad at bay."

Varric purses his lips, mulling that over. "He called at fucking six am yesterday, panicked that you'd gone missing. Missed Family Dinner, didn't answer your phone, weren't at your flat, etcetera. So he's going to be here as soon as he checks his email. that much is just gonna happen. But... We can at least minimize the damage." Pasta cooking, meatballs thawed and covered in sauce and chicken frying, he turns. "We went by Fenris's place. And your dad found his stash."

"Fuck." He takes a deep breath, adding, "it's not what it looks like."

"I figured. You've been clean every week and you seem to honestly regret what you did on blue. Meth... it would be disappointing as shit, but I could see you slipping there. But not with that," Varric says somberly.

"I mean–look, it's–he's not an addict either," he manages, hesitant. "Dammit. I can't tell his secrets, I just can't. It'd be a betrayal. I'd rather be disowned than betray him like that."

"His implants?" Varric offers. "Yeah, noticed them. Pretty powerful ones, especially for an elfblood."

Garrett's shoulders slump with relief. "Yeah, exactly. That's why he's got the blue–he's not an addict, not in the least. I should never have tried it, but I wanted to know what it was like." _After Fenris told me I couldn't understand what it was like if I never touched the stuff myself, anyway._

"I... I can understand that sort of urge," Varric allows. "Doesn't change what I– _you_ did under its effects, but I can see the why of it. But your dad needs something to solve, something he can blame. Unless you want him to pick, I would suggest you start thinking. Give him something."

"He can't _solve_ my life, Varric," he growls. "I don't know. Dammit. I could let him think work stress is getting to me."

"Bar fight. Or better, given that he knows you took the yacht, some kind of floating rave. Mal's big on loyalty, so keep the part where you were standing up for someone but..." Varric hesitates briefly as he drains the pasta. "He's figured out you're bi. So. Maybe use that. Say that someone had a problem with you being that way and came at you. Play it right and maybe he just insists on you getting some self-defense training or something."

"I'm straight," he says automatically, still thinking. "Yeah. Okay. I've been under some stress, I threw a party. Someone came at one of my friends, had old beef with him, and I got in the middle. Didn't realize he had a knife until too late." Seeing food almost ready, he risks a small healing, blue light swirling around him for a moment as he pales further.

"...you do realize–fucking hell you dumbass!" Varric snaps, having glanced over at the first hint of blue light. "Are you trying to give yourself mana-growths?"

_Gotta live long enough first,_ he thinks, but he can't get his mouth to say the words. The glow sputters, dies out, and he slumps back, heart pounding, vision swimming. _Rest a few. Then eat more food. Huh_. Everything sounds far away, like it's through a tunnel, except the blood rushing in his ears; he wants to lift his hand, to see if it looks far away too, but he can't find the energy to.

"...Garrett?" A pause. "Garrett!" A beat later and Varric is checking the idiot's–"Stone cracks, Garrett, your pulse is–nope, you need actual medical attention." Varric vanishes again, then returns rapidly. "Come on, grab hold, it's doctor time. You need a transfusion and maybe some stitches or something."

"No," he croaks. "no doctor. Jus' Anders. 's fine."

"Fine, no hospital but I don't know an Anders so you're going to have to be fine with my doctor," Varric snaps, not pausing as he bodily lifts Garrett to take downstairs.

"Nnn," he slurs. "Jus' need food. 'mfine."

"There's food there," Varric assures Garrett. "Really awesome food, comes in tubes."

* * *

Thankfully, Garrett seems to be more right than wrong; Varric's doctor gets him some blood to be safe, but it's mostly a precaution. Electrolytes, however, he's in short supply of; hooking him up to an IV perks him up considerably, enough to argue over being treated again. Not that either man pays him any mind.

"You said this was a stab wound?" Aldane says, peering under the bandages.

"Improvised weapon, not a knife," Varric answers deftly. "Is there something wrong with the wound?"

"It appears to be a gunshot wound–seems to have been stitched up already, but that's definitely an entry wound. Did you get the bullet out? Or the fragments?"

"Yes," mutters Garrett, not that he expects anyone to really believe him right now .

"..." Varric studies Garrett for a long, long moment. "Let's have an x-ray done, just in case," he finally says in a soft, gentle voice.

"Sure," says Aldane easily. "I'll just go prep the machine. Won't be a moment." He strips off his latex gloves, heading out of the exam room to give them some privacy.

Varric waits until he hears the door click shut, giving Garrett a flat look. "Gunshot wound."

"I never said I was stabbed, you came to that assumption on your own," he slurs, his voice still feeling a bit thick to his own ears.

"Because the only people that get _shot_ in Kirkwall are terrorists, hardcore gangbangers, and _blood mages_ ," Varric snaps.

_Two out of three ain't bad?_ "Wasn't _in_ Kirkwall."

"Why were you shot _anywhere_?" Varric demands in a low whisper.

"Because someone with a gun decided he didn't like my face, why else?" He winces, faintly, but swallows, taking a deep breath. "I already told you, I can't tell you any more details than I have."

Varric's expression doesn't budge an inch as he reaches over to press a hand–lightly–on the wound. "Gunshot." Garrett hisses with pain, shutting his eyes against it–but doesn't add anything else. "Garrett. Please. You're in over your head. If you can't explain... then at least trust me enough to ask for help, damnit," Varric demands, though there's a clear note of pleading in his voice.

"I didn't need your help," the mage replies quietly. "Anders was coming back this afternoon to heal me again, I just.. jumped the gun. I'd have been fine. He does good work–he's trained for it, I'm still a rookie."

"If you'd asked for help, maybe you wouldn't have been shot. I could have had food and medical supplies waiting. I could have lent you a boat so you didn't have to steal Leandra's. I could have covered for your absence so your dad didn't have to go through a day of thinking you were dead in some ditch." Varric leans back, eyes closing with exhaustion.

"Would you have done any of that? Or would you have told me not to be an idiot, to let it go and focus on my own life?" asks Garrett, quietly. "I can't just... not help. Not when there's this much at stake. If I get shot once in a while, so be it. Dad will never understand that."

Varric can't help it: he bursts into laughter. It's not very... merry or mirthful though. More bittersweet. Hurt flashes across Garrett's face before anger buries it. "Fuck you too, buddy."

"No, it's not–it's that you don't think your father–" Varric takes a breath. "Your father almost ruined his life, almost gave up his chance of marrying Leandra, his promising career, his actual life–all of that to save some poor fuck who had the shit luck of having a backstabbing brother greedy enough to sell him. It was stupid- there was no profit in it, no real chance it should have worked. It cost him a lot, it should have cost him everything, but he never once hesitated or asked for the favor to be repaid. So yeah, I think he'd understand."

Garret frowns, listening; he chews his bottom lip, thinking it over, carefully glancing away from Varric's face as he realizes. "He wouldn't. You saw how protective he gets. Maybe he was that way once, but he's not now. He'd never let me see Fenris again if he thought he had anything to do with my getting shot."

"If your son was hurt by someone, would you want him to hang around that person?" Varric asks quietly. "Your son, who you still remember holding as a baby? Who followed you around for hours, trying to mimic you? Who is growing and changing and cutting you out of his life more and more each year?"

"Ten to one if Dad still had a father when he met you, he'd have tried to come between you two. And I bet you anything Dad wouldn't have let him. So maybe young Dad would have respected me for this, but he doesn't now. He's changed."

"Given that Mal's parents sold him to a Circle..." Varric shakes his head. "I get your point. But do you get mine? His? Even if you disagree, do you understand why?"

"He loves me," he says, and it sounds more like a prison sentence than a boon. "I get that. I'm not _trying_ to get killed, Varric. Just... some things matter more to me."

_Love ain't supposed to sound like..._ "Nothing that can be said to convince you to stay safer, is there?"

"Tell you what," he says, after a moment. "I won't say no to some kevlar. It's only a hot minute to put that shit on, right? If a minute matters, I'm probably already too late."

"...I suppose I can do that. Not kevlar though, that's old. I'll get you a ballistic weave and ceramic plates job, good stuff."

Garrett nods. "This is a once in a lifetime thing, anyway. It probably won't come up. But if something else dangerous like this does, I'll be ready. So my dad doesn't really need to know the details."

"He's gonna need to know something. More than you'd want I wager, given what he already knows. But some body armour I can do."

"The party story's fine. Especially after Anders heals me again, it won't be obvious it was a gunshot wound instead of a knife."

"You still went missing for two days without warning. Calling out of work to do so," Varric points out.

"I'm sure he'll be livid. Ranting at me will help." He shrugs.

"Do you have an particular reason why you don't care how this goes?"

"Nothing I say will make him _not_ mad. Nothing I say gets me off the hook. The truth makes it worse. So what do you expect me to do? Bitch about it endlessly?"

"Come up with a plan. Figure out what you can offer to make him happier, figure out what you won't. You're right he's going to be mad, but you can shift it downwards if you try."

He sighs. "Maybe if I threaten to move out entirely and stop talking to him at all, he'll be happy with upshifting the number of family dinners again. That was fucking awful, but at least it gives me some privacy afterward."

"Again with the attacking..." Varric mutters. "Maybe lead with an apology for worrying him?"

"So he'll feel justified grounding me?"

"So he realizes that you understand that you hurt him and, I would hope, feel bad about doing so, even if you don't regret your deeds themselves."

Garrett glances away, frowning. "To be honest most of my worry has been 'ow ,fuck, that fucking hurts' followed by 'damage control', so no, I don't feel especially bad yet. Maybe later."

"I... suppose shock and trauma can have that effect," Varric says neutrally.

"It's not–dammit, I'm _fine_." Varric just raises an eyebrow, prompting the younger man into continuing. "Look, I got a bit lightheaded because of the healing. That happens. I'm fine. I would have perked back up in a few minutes anyway." He shakes his head. "I don't mean to worry Dad. That's why I don't tell him about this kind of shit."

"How's that been working out?"

"You have no idea how much better than the alternatives."

"To be fair, neither do you," Varric points out.

"I have a better idea." He shrugs a bit, wincing. "Are we cool?"

Varric shrugs a little. "Still working through it a bit," he confesses. "I don't like having someone so... impactful in my life that is keeping such important variables from me. It's a distraction and a danger. I want to help. But I refuse to force you to share and you won't trust me enough to do it yourself. So..." He shrugs again.

"As if you tell me everything either," the mage scoffs. "But.. thanks. You've been a lot more help than I expected. I owe you one."

* * *

After the doctor gives Garrett his x-rays, confirming that there's nothing left inside him, and sends him on his way with painkillers, they head to the Amell estate, calling Mal on the way to meet him. When they arrive, he leans on Varric, flashing Mal a wan smile and beginning immediately with the apologies.

Malcolm helps them to his office, gets Garrett a (non-alcoholic) drink and a chair. He listens while Garrett spins him a story: stress at work, feeling inadequate, worried about his presentation. A party that he admits was a bad idea. A drunken bar fight, some lout emulating an action movie with a broken bottle. Getting between him and his friend, getting stabbed for his troubles. Emergency first aid, his friend driving the boat home, but his friends bailing on him at the harbor, worried about getting in trouble for taking the boat. Seeing that Varric had replied to his email, calling the dwarf and asking him for a ride to the doctor–no hospital needed, he was stable enough from the earlier patching-up, but just to be sure and get a tetanus shot.

Mal's face shows he doesn't buy it, not entirely, but it softens a little when Garrett apologizes for taking the boat. "It pains me that I can't trust you, son, but the reality is I can't. Not anymore. Doing a stunt like this? When you're already on such thin ice from the motorcycle accident? I can't keep paying your rent if you're going to abuse my hospitality. You can move back home with me, or you can move on campus where they'll keep an eye on you, but you need closer supervision than you've gotten thus far."

"No," says Garrett, face hardening. "That's unacceptable. I'm a grown adult–you can't force me to move back home."

"I can't," his father allows, "but your internship won't pay your rent either."

"Then I'll live on the streets," snaps Garrett. _Go ahead. I'm calling this bluff here and now._

The barb hits home, deeper than Garrett anticipated; the same hurt Garrett felt when Varric laughed at him echoes across Mal's face, but his thirty-odd years on Garrett have matured him enough to let it show instead of covering for it with anger. "I don't understand why you... why you're so against moving home," he says, firmly. "I've done nothing to abuse you. I've been nothing but supportive. I've done everything I can to give you the space you claim to need. But you've pushed my limits, Garrett, and I can't watch you die because I was too weak-willed to put my foot down."

"Nobody's dying! You'd think I have AIDS or something."

"You _have_ taken serious injury twice now due to, let's say, pursuing a passion-focused lifestyle," Varric says delicately. "Mal, you are being a bit over the top with this though." Before Mal can protest, the dwarf adds, "can you look me in the eye and say you didn't do dumber? Take just as many chances? And yeah, I get that being part of why you're so determined to protect him, that you don't want him to hurt the way you had to," he gives Garrett a firm look, "but you also need to remember that those hurts made you the man you are. The good man you are."

"I can't argue with his valor," Malcolm admits, "but stealing the family yacht? To throw a party? I can't condone that sort of thing. And it's–it's not like you, Garrett. You've never been exactly sedate, but you used to know right from wrong."

"You've never done _anything_ morally questionable in your life?" his son presses.

"Nothing like this!" Malcolm takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I offered to let you live on campus. You'll have a curfew there, but they can alert me if you go missing again."

"How about I promise to tell you before I leave town?"

"How about I stick a tracking chip in your hand and have Varric write me software to track you at all times," quips Malcolm back.

"Woah now, that's... a bit far, yeah? Sure, that's not unheard of but for kids mostly," Varric protests. "How about a bracelet that alerts if he leaves town or doesn't come to work or your place once every forty-eight hours?" He hums softly as something occurs. "Actually, we add a panic button on it and it becomes something all of you should be wearing."

"All of us?" asks Malcom, turning to fix Varric with a hard stare.

"You're stupidly rich and important. You have good security but kidnappings could happen," Varric says bluntly.

"...Alright. At least the younger pair and Garrett. I'm not certain how that would work for Marian."

"Can it page Varric instead?" asks Garrett, frowning. "So someone less likely to panic gets to field the alert Monday morning after I spend a weekend out?"

"Bold of you to assume you're spending the weekend out anywhere," he says, scowling. "I doubt Varric wants to be paged."

Varric shrugs a little. "Meh. Not like I don't have a dozen page settings for you already for keeping tabs on you," he says brightly, as if admitting to nothing of import.

Malcolm scoffs, shaking his head with a wry smile. "You never change, do you, Var?"

"Sure I change: constantly improving on excellence," he says modestly.

Garrett looks back and forth between Malcolm and Varric, frowning. _Is that why he was irritated when I called him my father's mistress? Why he hates the term 'faggot'? They're like an old married couple–and it's clear whatever my father and mother had when they were young has long since cooled. Gah. I don't want to think about that._ "See, he's fine with it," he says instead.

"Alright. But you're staying here tonight, and Monday night, until we have the anklet. No buts."

"Probably for the best. I'm still healing."

"Brill. Mal and I can whip up anklet for everyone today probably; any ideas on designs, Garrett?"

"Unobtrusive. I don't want some girl commenting when we're about to get busy, or thinking I'm femme."

"Thin, unadorned titanium band then? Bit boring- we could work in a geometric design, a quote or some runework..."

"Geometric is fine."

"Maybe a design for each child?" Malcolm offers. "Carver would love a Mabari on his, and I bet Beth would like something prettier than just a basic band." _And it would let us identify them if... if we find the band somewhere._

"What about you and Leandra? Gold and diamonds for her, I figure?"

"You know it. Go for black for me." He shrugs.

* * *

There's a little snag when Garrett realizes that the bracelet is going to be seamless and require an industrial precision laser cutter to remove, but eventually all the bracelets get made and passed out. The next week goes well, Garrett recovering from his injuries by Wednesday–thanks to a little bit of help from Anders of course–and making good progress on his project. His other duties are... hit mostly, but with some miss. Some of the drudge work just can't keep his attention, no matter how he tries. But he does well enough, even with any chemical aid besides coffee.

As such, come Friday evening, Varric knocks on the end of Garrett's desk. "It's almost seven. Again. Time to call it, Garrett."

"Yeah, yeah, in an hour or so. Let me finish this chart," he says, without looking up.

"You have three minutes to save and close before I hard reboot your computer," Varric says cheerfully. "Come on, I called ahead and got us a table at that steakhouse on Longvie."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's new," he says, saving and shutting down with a few deft taps.

"It's been a month," Varric says simply.

"Since?" he asks, grabbing his bag.

Varric laughs a little, amused that Garrett seems to have lost track. "You're halfway through your test and well on pace."

"Oh!" he says, honestly startled. "Shit. Well, there you go, I told you it'd be no sweat."

Varric gives him a flat look, but lets it go without comment. "Anyway, figured I'd treat you to dinner." He hesitates a moment, then goes for it. "You get called on your fuck-ups pretty consistently; seems only fair to point out you succeeding."

Garrett flashes a rare, honest smile, seeming slightly nonplussed at the compliment. "Well. Thank you."

As they head into Varric's car, Garrett adds, "Sorry, I don't know where my head's at. Well, I do know. I've been off all day. But still, I should have remembered."

"Common enough for a Friday," Varric says easily as they get in. Naturally enough, he drives a sports car. Nothing too flashy, but very high end. "But you're sounding like there's something more than 'can it be the weekend already' on your mind."

"Tch. Yes. But it's dumb." He sighs, raking his hand through his hair, almost unaware of how much he sounds like Fenris. "I just don't understand some men think. It's like, would it kill us to be fucking grateful once in a while? Beth's always going on about men being garbage and I can't say I have a leg to stand on."

_Should I... no, calling him on it would (feel really good) just shut this down._ "Well... probably comes back to the pride thing. Men are supposed to be the strong ones, the protectors and earners. If we feel grateful for something, it means someone did something for us. Something we wanted or, stone forbid, needed someone to do for us. Which would imply..." He shrugs as they pull out of the company lot.

"It's just, I've done a hell of a fucking lot for this guy, and he's still–ugh. I know it won't stick. He'll come back as soon as he needs something else. But it sucks to be dropped like that, like none of it matters."

"You could... _not_ take him back," Varric points out.

"Why would I do that?" he asks, frowning.

"Well, it doesn't sound like this guy's a very loyal friend. On top of being ungrateful and uncaring."

"No, he's loyal. He's gotten into shit for me before. He's just... frightened. Worried about nothing."

"Frightened enough to drop you like it all means nothing?" _Maybe take the long way there (don't want to interrupt this)._

"It's not like none of it matters, he just... He's scared. I got _shot_ , it's understandable. But I'm _fine_ and he's _fine_ and we're _fine_ , there's no need to fall on his sword like that."

_So it was a result of Fenris. Good to know._ "Ah, noble sacrifice sort of thing? You see that a lot in stories but... Has that ever worked?"

"No! That's exactly the point. Why can't he just be _happy_? It's like as soon as he gets a taste of happiness, or starts to really process the idea I'm here for the long run, he gets spooked and runs from it."

_But you're totally not dating._ "Sounds like he needs to have a good, long think about what he really wants out of your friendship."

"I think that's it–he's afraid to _want_ anything. He's focused on what he _can_ have and what's _safe_ but not what he _wants_." Garrett sighs, slumping in his seat. "I told him I'd call after work, but I figured I'd work late. Give him some space."

"Maybe low-key it. He's the one that pulled away, so leave it to him to start your next talk. Just send him a text that you worked late," Varric suggests. "I get that you want to make it work but... he needs to give a sign he's willing to make an effort too. Friendships are a bit like partnerships that way- if only one side is compromising, it's either unsustainable or just plain not going to work."

"I can't really ask him to bend more than he has. He's lost so much already..." It seems then that Garrett's brain catches up with his mouth, as he trails off, swallowing. "Nevermind that. Just–thanks for the advice."

"Relax, off the clock again," Varric says easily. "Kind of nice being able to just... talk about personal stuff with someone."

"Yeah," he agrees. "So long as it's not Fen's personal shit. He's... He's a very private person, and for good reason."

"I get private. So... how about you? Anything else going on that's not his stuff too?"

"Getting back into Street Fighter–the game, not actual fights. Been thinking of entering the citywide tourney at the end of the month. It's just nice to have something that I can do alone, you know? Especially since I'm out a bike."

"Half-way to getting a new one though," Varric says cheerfully. "Never got much into Street Fighter or fighting games for the most part. Some Brawl is about it. I enjoy a good RTS game though."

"Yeah?" he asks, surprised. "Busy tomorrow? If I'm not going to Fen's place, I wouldn't mind kicking your ass in Brawl instead."

It's not until he's done speaking that he realizes what he's done: reached across the line between employer, father's friend, and friendship. Thus far, it's been Varric reaching out, broaching those boundaries, and Garrett putting them back up, pushing him away, insisting that friendship isn't possible. And yet, here they are–something like friends, the way Fenris is something more than friends. Unspoken, but still tangible.

A smile quirks at his lips and Varric bobs his head. "Sure." _Probably lose, but could be fun._ "I'll send a car to get you around two or so? Figure you can stay for dinner if you want."

"Yeah. That sounds great."

And to his mild surprise, it really does.

* * *

The next month is easier, especially with the 100% reduction in getting shot. The body armor is completed and delivered; Garrett kicks Varric's ass in Brawl but loses handily in Starcraft 2–especially since the dwarf's implants interface with his PC to give him better control over the game than the built-in GUI. They enjoy the game, though, and the trash-talking doubly so.

Garrett's work goes well, too. Above and beyond his one big idea, he implements several small efficiency improvements in various areas of the business. Plus, he gets to know the various C-level execs–which is real handy when he manages to convince the CPO to give Juanita the redhead a chance on leading a project of her own, rather than handing it to Dinna as usual. The ultimate plan is to convince her to pass over Dinna for Juanita in the next promotion season; the best revenge is served cold, after all.

At the end of two months, he handily 'wins' the wager. His work performance dips, but only a little; he's merely extraordinary, not phenomenal, without meth. But his work output is more consistent, and he begins to put on weight, coming into work with less bags under his eyes and relying on coffee less. He begins going to the gym again, instead of hitting the bars with Fen every weekend. Slowly but surely, he begins building a life.

The last day of the wager, he's half an hour late to work–but he turns up, eyes a bit puffy, but head high and decidedly not injured. "Sorry," he says to Varric, leaning in the doorway. "I got caught up with something. Won't happen again."

"...need to chat before you clock in?" Which, over the last month, has become a very important phrase, their way of keeping their work life and new but strengthening friendship separate. Things are really going well and Varric has always been one to prefer jumping on sparks before they become fire.

"I'm already late," he says, but he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the empty office. "Well. If you don't mind. I can always stay clocked in for lunch–eat at my desk, that's a whole hour back."

"Given how often you work three or four extra hours, I think your boss will let it slide," Varric says blandly, waving Garrett to the office.

Garrett slips all the way inside, pulling the door shut as he sits heavily in one of the chairs. "It's nothing really. Just another fight."

"With Fenris?" Varric asks neutrally as he heads to the wet bar to grab a soda for both of them.

"Who else," he quips. "Gonna have to cancel our meetup tomorrow, I'm probably going to spend the weekend at his place. Might set off the bracelet, but it'll be worth it."

"Or you could swing by home for two hours at some point," Varric points out, then pauses as he sets the sodas down. "Wait- the weekend? I thought you were..."

"I told you it wouldn't last," he says, with a shrug. "We're working through the problems, like always. He just scared me. I shouldn't have shouted at him like I did."

"So he's more willing to be open with you. Willing to reach out and trust you?"

"As much as he's able." Garrett shrugs, picking up his soda.

"Enough? Is what he's able enough for you?" the dwarf asks gently. _You deserve better than this guy. It sounds like he had a hard life (or he's both a masterful liar and an utter shit) but... that doesn't mean you need to bleed out for him._

"It has to be," he says, taking a pull off his soda, wishing it were beer. _I love him._

"Why?"

"Because I'm not giving up on him, no matter what."

"Does he feel the same way? Granted, I'm only getting one viewpoint on this whole... dynamic, but it seems to just be you changing and putting in effort." _Come on Garrett, don't do this to yourself..._

"He's doing the best he can," Garrett snaps.

Varric raises his hands a bit. "Fine, fine, I'll take your word for it. Not like I know him, so I can't really say much on the matter. Still... if I can help..."

Garrett sighs, hackles lowering. "Sorry. I'm just protective. I'm sure it'll be fine. We'll make up over the weekend and I'll be back to my usual self by Monday."

_That's what I'm afraid of..._ "Right," Varric says with a faint sigh. "Try and remember to take a small break at some point to drop by your dad's," he repeats.

"Sure, if I have time. But if it goes off, just text me, I'll leave my phone on ring."

"Be prepared to go to video chat," Varric says with a snort. "And possibly to find a recent newspaper. Your dad has gotten seriously uptight about some things in his old age."

Garrett rolls his eyes. "Tell me about it." But he smiles just a touch anyway. "Thanks."

* * *

Garrett's prediction comes true: after a weekend with Fenris, minus lunch grabbed at home to reset his anklet, he comes in Monday bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He doesn't stay late all that week; he's out the door at five every day, which is good for his work-life balance but not so great for his deadlines. He begins to slip–not a lot, and not on anything important, but instead of delivering half a day early, he begins to deliver half a day late.

Varric knows the reason. But he also knows better than to say anything.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's back together with Fenris, and that means trouble. Can Varric keep his nose clean long enough to head off whatever bad news is coming down the pipe? Or is he doomed to fail Mal's request that he help Garrett get his act together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter: psychological trauma/torture (no gore)

Varric designs a lot of security systems, often when his insomnia hits and he needs to soothe the anxiety before he can go back to sleep. Wednesday morning, just after 1am, one of the systems Varric never really anticipated using alerts him. It's not the primary security system for the central warehouse, nor the secondary; it's the tertiary, the bit Varric designed just to calm his mental demons, above and beyond the call of duty. This system only goes off if both the systems are in a failure state; since the one fails over seamlessly to the other and vice versa, since they have independent power and independent telcomm, since they both scream if they're tampered with, this means an expert has somehow bypassed both to gain physical access to the warehouse.

This means a highly trained intelligence officer is inside Varric's warehouse.

The cameras he logs into show no sign of entry, but they also show old racking systems he's replaced–they're in a self-test mode, something that shouldn't be possible without the assistance of a skilled hacker or someone with insider knowledge of the system. He could press a button and call in the cops, but this is Warehouse 001, one of the warehouses involved in Mal's distribution system.

As such, who arrives at the warehouse next is Varric and a half dozen of his most loyal security personnel. Most of them are dwarves as well, people cast out from their Clans or exiled from the Chinese Empire entirely, and they owe Varric the new lives he helped them carve out here in Kirkwall. The other is a human whose story is different only in the details, who gets out of his car followed by a massive canine nearly his equal in mass. Mabari are rare outside of Europe, but Kirkwall is that sort of place after all. A quiet and quick conversation has the security team spreading out to secure the perimeter save for one.

"You sure we shouldn't call in the police?" Gerav asks softly, though he doesn't sound like he particularly wants to call in said group. He might have left the Carta behind decades ago but habits die hard after all, particularly survival ones.

"..yeah. Gut feeling," Varric offers after a moment. Gerav shrugs, rubbing at the twitch in his temple that never really goes away and follows his boss into a side entrance.

It must be a small team– an infiltration team is often only 2-3 individuals, aimed at getting in, getting their target, and getting out fast. By the time his team arrives, it's likely they're already on the last step, absconding with their goods. So Varric sends his men to establish a perimeter, noting that none of them spy a lookout outside the building. A risky trade-off: less attention from outside if they don't post one, but less insight. Unless they have a camera.

This could be a Carta operation, the way it's being handled. It could be Templars, but it's more likely they'd be flashy about it, show up with a warrant. It could be Kirkwall PD, sending some of their covert ops guys– in which case things are about to get real bad for Mal and Varric, real fast.

Varric takes point, Gerav two steps behind, as they head into the warehouse. It's easy to tell there's nobody in the big main room, which is another bad sign– they knew to head to the basement, where the good stuff is stored. Varric and Gerav take the stairs, noting the freight lift is on the basement level still, and creep up on the storeroom with weapons drawn and at the ready.

Just in time to hear voices, speaking low and firm. Male voices. One of them Varric doesn't recognize: "–take this stuff upstairs. You grab that USB and meet me there."

One Varric almost does, though not immediately: "And for the Maker's sake, keep your magic in check."

The telltale sound of the lift doors shutting, leaving the third man to grumble in a voice all too familiar to Varric: "Yeah, yeah. Maker. You'd think they'd trust me by now."

Varric goes stock still, unmoving. Gerav waits a few seconds, then a few more, for Varric to cue the attack. But eventually he knows he has to act or the intruders will slip out off to Stone-knows-where in the warehouse. As such, he lifts his borderline illegal, modified compressed air rifle and fires off a quick double tap shot at the remaining figure. Even as he does, he's pinging the rest of the security force to head for the basement.

The darts hit carbon-steel plating and bounce off with a soft 'ping' that is suddenly the loudest thing in the warehouse. Time stands still for a moment; then, there's an answering volley of force balls, a standard mage opening gambit, as well as a soft curse. They're camped in front of the only exit to the basement now that the lift is gone, and so, the figure rushes straight at them, hoping to bull rush past them before he can–

Garrett's eyes meet Varric's and he skids to a stop, shocked, raising his staff to defend himself.

"Why?" Varric demands, stepping forward without a weapon raised. " **Why**?"

"Varric, I–it's not what it looks like," the mage tries, swallowing, but his mouth is dry. _Anders. Fenris. I have to warn them, I have to–_ "We'll talk later," he says, and takes a few steps forward.

"It looks like you're fucking stealing from me, so I'd really like to believe that, I really would." Varric stays right in his way, unmoving. "So tell me what it should look like."

Garrett regards him for a few seconds. _He won't shoot me. Not and risk my dad's wrath. I'll straighten this out later, but right now I have to save Anders and Fenris._ He lifts the staff again, protectively, sideways before him, and rushes straight at Varric, intending to use the staff to push him out of the way so he can get to the stairs.

A flare of white hot anger– _just anger (not hurt, not betrayal)_ – surges through Varric and he just reacts. There's not much thought, not really. His hand snaps up with Mini B already readied, the smaller version of his crossbow prototype (guns are illegal; they never thought to prohibit crossbows, even ones with mag-rails). His training guides his aim, the bolt hitting Garrett in the left thigh– the leg he'd broke earlier this year. The narrow point punches right through the body armour three or four inches deep. As soon as the bolt realizes it's hit something soft, the battery inside the bolt discharges thirty six thousand volts at five milliamps. Less powerful but more damaging than your standard stun gun; Varric designed the bolts to disable cybernetics up to and including military grade.

Garrett screams, a strained, desperate cry, and collapses, twitching, in a heap.

_Fenris..._

Then it goes dark.

* * *

When Garrett wakes next, he can't move. Not because his body doesn't work, which is at least a little reassuring. No, it's because of the thick metal bands lined with fabric he can feel at his wrist, elbow, neck, waist, knees and ankles. Can't see either, but he can feel a bag over his head so that's also explained. He's against a metal board of some kind, heavy and cold feeling against his bare back. No shoes or pants either, but he can feel his boxers are still in place at least. And there's a bandage around his leg, which is throbbing painfully but not as painfully as it should. All in all, this is right up there with waking up after the motorcycle crash as worst awakenings. His fingers are in thick gloves, silk he figures, which makes his magic pretty much useless even though his mouth is clear. Muffled from the bag, but clear.

_Fuck. I've been kidnapped. Fuck. **Fuck.**_

He shifts a little, trying to figure out how much clearance he has. _Alright. If I can just get that panic button smashed against the ground–or if I can't, worst case, I was at work today so that's two days I'll be missing before it goes off. No, I've got to get to the button. Varric said–_

That's when it comes rushing back to him, and he stops struggling, slumping in his bonds. _Varric kidnapped me. Varric **shot** me. There's no way that bangle's going to save me. I'm fucked. I'm so fucked._

He gets to wait, stewing on that for a long, long time. Hard to judge really, given the lack of anything he can use to keep track. Eventually, he hears a soft thump, like a heavy door being closed. Then a faint scuff to his left.

"Why?"

"Who's there?" His voice is hoarse, soft, his breathing rapid, as he tries to keep a lid on his panic. "Varric? Is that you?"

A pause. "Yes. _Why_?"

"Please," he begs. "Please, I– I never meant to hurt anyone. Please don't kill me."

_Stone cracks, he–_ "Answer. The _question_ , Garrett," he snaps.

"I needed blue!" he says, quickly. "I know you ship it, for dad. You have shipments insured, everything's insured, you wouldn't lose any money really and we'd get the blue we needed."

"Blue." The word is disgusted, scathing and scornful.

Hurt.

Disappointed.

"It's not for me! I'm clean, I swear, I'm clean," the mage babbles. "It's for Fenris. For his implants." _And Anders._

A long pause. "Forty-seven point three kilograms of _weapons grade_ lyrium." Another pause. "For his _implants_."

"Wh-what? Weapons gra– I thought dad used street shit, impure shit, in his parts? Th-that's what he told the Po– oh fuck. Oh fuck. I swear I didn't know. I swear!"

"Of course you didn't know. You can't be trusted." _Clearly._

"Fuck, fuck fuck, shit, I can't– please, think of my dad, he'll never get over it if I go missing, he'll be heartbroken," he stammers. _Why would he be telling me this shit now if he's planning to let me go?_

"Better missing than a traitor." _How _dare_ you use Mal like a shield after doing this._

"He'll– he'll find out," he stammers. "you know Dad's real smart. He'll figure out you had something to do with it. He'll never trust you again, Varric, even if I'm a shit and you hate me now, for Dad's sake, please, _please_ don't kill me, please,"

"You tried to steal from him, from us," Varric says softly. "Not just a years supply of lyrium for production, but also schematics and prototypes that could have cracked secrecy that Mal has worked tirelessly for over two decades to keep in place. _Weapon_ schematics, magitek ones that could give the Templar enough of an edge against _everyone_ that we'd all be kneeling before the Maker by next decade."

"What? No, it was shipping manifests. He said it was shipping manifests. There's this artifact, he thinks it was smuggled into a shipment, he was trying to track where it went, get it back before you found it. Not schematics."

"He lied. You committed treason. Not just to Kirkwall, but to your family. To me. There was nothing but raw goods, refined lyrium and those prototypes in that entire warehouse, much less that shipment."

"He said– he must have been mistaken, I don't– I would never have stolen prototypes for him, never."

"But you'd still steal for him. From me. From your own father. No, you're not his son. No child of Mal's would do this."

"Please," Garrett whispers, choking back a sob. "Maker, please. I just wanted to help them–the artifact was a bonus, I was after the lyrium. For Fenris."

"How many times have I offered– asked, _begged_ – to help you?" Varric asks quietly.

"It was for Fen," he whimpers. "Fen doesn't know you, trust you. And if I came to you and asked for Blue you'd laugh me out of your office!"

" _Fuck Fenris_ ," Varric snarls. "He should never have asked you to do this, never have put you in this situation! He's a poison in your life, the cause of _every_ bad choice you've made in the last six months! But if you had asked me to help him, I would have because you're my stone cracked friend!"

"I'm sorry," the mage whimpers again. "Please."

"Please _what_?"

"Please, don't kill me. Please, let me go home. I– I didn't think anyone'd get hurt, I really didn't, I swear. Whatever you want, whatever it takes to make this right, please... I can't– I know I can't regain your trust, I don't deserve your trust, but my father doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve to lose his oldest son."

"He already has," Varric says, voice low and tired. "What did we do Garrett? What did we do that was so wrong you would..."

"It's just money! Fenris's _life_ was at stake, I couldn't just leave him. I couldn't. We ship enough lyrium in a day to keep him alive a year, even at his dose, and I couldn't just let him die because I fucked up and he lost his supply. Maybe you can't understand, I don't know, but I couldn't betray him like that. I didn't know anything about any prototypes."

"Were you asked to download those files specifically?" Varric demands. _Not many knew we were making those (much less when they'd be shipped) so..._

"It was set to auto-download anything that looked like a manifest while it overrode the time locks on the lifts. All I had to do was plug it in, help them load the lift, yank it on my way out."

"Idiot," Varric mutters. "Why not come to me? I already knew that Fenris needed lyrium. Why steal from us? Dammit Garrett, I trusted you!"

"If it was stolen, insurance would kick in," he whimpers. "I didn't want you to lose any money on it."

"Why– that doesn't– if money isn't important, then why did you _betray_ us to save us _money_?"

"Because _you_ care about the money and I didn't– I didn't want you– Dammit, I didn't want you wondering if I was on Blue again, or telling me I shouldn't be with Fen, or any of the things you're saying now. I didn't want to disappoint you the way I disappoint everyone else. So I thought I could just handle it, you'd never know it was me, it wouldn't be a problem."

Silence.

"...I didn't think it would be a betrayal," he adds after a long uncomfortable moment. "To save Fenris, without costing you anything? I didn't think it'd be..."

"How could it be anything else?" Varric asks quietly. "You used the access I gave you, the trust I gave you, and you stole from us. Even if it was just the lyrium, even if it wasn't things that could get your father and I sent to jail for decades or worse... it doesn't matter what it was, you betrayed our trust and stole from us- and for something I would have just _given_ you if you'd asked. I would have required an explanation, would have wanted a say in things, but your pride was worth more than my trust I guess."

"Nobody just _gives_ away Blue. I tried to get Fen to let me talk to you, let me buy it off you, but he wouldn't. Didn't want someone else being involved he couldn't trust. Maker. I should have pushed harder. I thought I could fix things but I can't, I'm not clever, I'm just a dumb fuck like everyone thinks. I'm failing out of college, did Dad tell you? I can't keep my bo– _friends_ around, I can't keep my grades up, I can barely hold a job–what did I think I was doing, trying to be clever? I should have asked for help. I should have begged. I just– I let it go to my head, that you thought I had something worth saying."

Varric takes a long, slow breath. _He... he might really... but how can I trust it? I thought he was being honest before so..._ "Who is he? The one gave you the USB, that helped you steal from me? Tell me everything about him."

A pause. A sharp, ragged breath. "I can't," Garrett says finally. "Anders is my friend. He saved my life more than once. I can't sell him out to you. I– I just can't."

"I don't care," Varric says, voice cold again. "Talk. Now."

"I can't," he says again. "I just can't. I didn't tell him your financials, I wouldn't sell you out to him, I can't do it to him either. I didn't tell him how to bypass the cams, I made him turn away while I did it. If he was after some prototype he didn't learn about it from me."

"He used you, Garrett. If he had gotten away with your expected haul, your father and I would be in jail, killed, on the run or enslaved. Like as not, your siblings and mother would be too."

"I can't sell him out. I need to– I need to talk to him, to know why he did it, but I can't make this right by fucking him over."

"That's the only way you can," Varric disagrees. "You're trying to sell that you didn't know, that you wouldn't have done this if you had known. Still doesn't mean it wasn't a betrayal, but it does reduce the scope some. But if you didn't know, then he did. And you protecting him means you're protecting what he did. So pick: your family or Anders."

"I can't make that choice, Varric, I _can't_. Knowing what I know about Anders, I can't hand him over to you. He won't get to my family again, I can promise you that. I didn't tell him enough to get through on his own and I'm sure as _hell_ not doing another job with him in my _life_ but I can't hand him over." He takes a deep breath, hands shaking a bit. "If you have to kill one of us, if only blood makes this right, at least I didn't sell him out. I fucked up. But I'm not a traitor. Not knowingly."

"Because that makes it better?" Varric says with scorn, though he had to admit to himself, albeit deep, deep below the roiling cold, that he respects the kind of loyalty. "What he knows is too much. He can get to your family, easily. Right now, your only chance is proving to me that you're Mal's son and my– that you still have something in you that can be worthy of trust. Because right now? You're a danger, a weakness I can't accept near me and mine. Give me something, Garrett." _Please._

"You're smart enough to protect yourself," he says quietly. "Fire me, change the encryption keys, I won't have anything I could hand over even if I wanted to. I'll leave Kirkwall, if that's what it takes. Send me somewhere I won't do any damage." A terrible idea comes over him, and he blurts, "send me to the Circle. I can't do any harm there. All I ask is you let my friends go, you look out for Fenris while I'm gone. He doesn't deserve to die just because I fucked this up."

The idea of sending Garrett away, of letting him out of his sight again... _Yeah, no dice_. "You need time to think," Varric says abruptly and there's the faint sounds of him standing. "Think over your priorities some, look back at the last six months and ask yourself: who has earned your loyalty? It should never be a gift, Garrett, or it's not loyalty, it's just abuse. I'm going to go question– well. You have that think."

"Wait," the mage begs, his blood running cold. "Wait. My friends. Did they– did they get away? Are they–?"

Varric doesn't say a word, just makes sure Garrett can hear him leave, the door thudding closed behind him.

* * *

Days, weeks, months pass; Garrett can't be sure and it doesn't matter. He's helpless. Captive. And worse, he can't think of a single reason he'll ever see the light of day again. No reason he deserves to.

Despite what Varric says, Garrett does believe Fenris and Anders deserve his trust. This is a betrayal, and a big one, but he can't help but think of the way Anders looks when he talks about the revolution, about the coming world after he kills everyone like Garrett's dad. Maybe he was a fool, thinking he could protect his family, could convince Anders that his dad is a good person and so is he, but he can't fault the man's motives, can't really say his cause is wrong. And the way Anders looks when he touches on his time in the Circle... if he thought his dad had anything to do with the Templars, he might be willing to overthrow him himself. But he knows better, and that's the fatal flaw–if Anders just realized, just thought of Varric as a person, he's sure the redhead would never have betrayed him. _This is my fault_ , he tells himself, as his bladder gives way. _If I had just been better, tried harder, gotten him to see, I could have prevented this._

_And Fenris... I can't betray him. I can't. He didn't do anything wrong. This was my fault, from start to finish. Fen never wanted to trust anyone, but I couldn't let him die. Last night (night before last?) he had the shakes all night, he was freezing cold. I think he threw up, some of those times he went to the bathroom, but he was too proud to admit it. I had to move up the timeline already, I didn't have time to fuck around and maybe alert Varric to what I was doing. I should have trusted him, but I didn't, and that's my fault. I should have bought the lyrium off him and lied to Fen about where it came from. But... it hurts more, betraying Fen, lying to him. Fen trusts me, and he trusts so few people. It feels more wrong to betray that trust than Varric's._

_Except..._ He shifts a bit, the dried urine making his pants stiffer, harder to deal with. _Except... I didn't realize how much Varric trusted me. Does he trust anyone? I thought he trusted me like he trusted his c-level execs–it's not like he ever told me personal stuff–but he listened when I talked about personal stuff, gave me advice. Went out drinking with me. Spent recreational time with me. Does he ever do that with anyone else? My dad, of course. But... maybe he's like Fen, just less obvious about it. Maybe I misread the situation entirely._

_It doesn't matter_ , he concludes, slumped in his bonds, having run out of the energy to hold himself more upright. _He's going to kill me. I can't convince him I'm worth something because I'm not. I royally screwed up. Fenris and Anders might be being tortured or dead right now, because of me. My family could have been arrested or killed, because of me. There's no reason for Varric to trust me, none at all. My best hope is convincing him I should be made Tranquil, because at least I'd still be alive. Dammit. Damn damn damn. Why am I so maker-cursed stupid?_

Eventually, there's noise again that isn't the soft, thrumming whump of a discreet fan. The door opens then closes, footsteps, someone sitting.

"Talk," Varric says quietly, voice weary. He's spent the last three hours– and five hours before his first talk with Garrett– putting a near total overhaul of every bit of security in StoneSure. And his private security. And cobbling together a reason to get Mal to do the same, which is not going to be an easy sell. Thankfully, Gerav is the only one that saw Garrett's face, and he knows he can trust the other man to never even hint at it. So right now, as far as Mal knows, his eldest son is at work, working on helping with a clusterfuck in records. Shame he'll miss the weekend visit, but look at how he's stepping up to help in a crisis, especially one that's going to be tedious drudge work for the most part.

"I'm sorry," Garrett says quietly. "I fucked up, royally. I know that."

"...how are you going to fix it?"

"I don't think I can," he says, his voice pained. "I didn't realize just how... I didn't realize you trusted me to the extent you did. There's no way I can earn that back. I can't make this not have happened. I can't hand my friends over to you if you don't already have them–if you had Anders you wouldn't be asking me about him. And if he had the prototype you wouldn't be... you wouldn't be here talking to me," he adds, swallowing. "So I can't, there's nothing to be done there. I'll do whatever you ask, so long as it doesn't hurt my friends. But you only seem to want my friends on a platter. So... I don't think I can make this right."

"If they asked you to do this again, would you? Because I can't risk Mal or your siblings. It would break their hearts if you vanished. It would end my friendship with Mal, through guilt on my end if nothing else. But if that's the cost to keep them safe, I'll pay it." He swallows thickly. "So tell me Garrett. Convince me that you've learned you can't trust them. That you've realized they used you to hurt your family."

"Anders used me," he says quietly. "But it was my fault. I knew he– I knew he wasn't fond of the Amells. I didn't think he'd do this to me. But I.. I should have worked harder to change his mind. If I had just... I should have known this was fishy. I should have said no to the whole artifact and manifests thing. It was too much, too risky, and he– he's not a bad person, he isn't. I should have stopped this."

"Look what you made me do," Varric murmurs, shaking his head. "So yes. If he came to you in a month with an apology and a sad story, you'd welcome him back and help him steal from us again." _He really isn't– he isn't **him**. He's just– he wants to– to help people. Do good and... be accepted. Wanted, needed._

"No," says Garrett sharply. "Not from you. Never again from you. But... help him, I might." He takes a deep breath, lets it out, admitting something he's barely admitted to himself: "I love him, Varric."

_Of course you do,_ Varric thinks tiredly. _Stone and Maker both..._ "He's bad for you. Worse than Fenris. Stone cracks, Garrett, think! Look over the last six months: every time you've fucked up, made a bad choice, done the wrong thing, it can be traced right back to one of them. Fuck, both of them most of the time I'd wager."

"You only see the bad," he points out. "I'm alive because of them. If I didn't have Fen for backup and Anders healing me, I'd have died a dozen times over in the past couple years. And you don't see those moments where Fen lets me in, lets me comfort him, where there's hope that someday he can be a whole person again. You don't see the passion Anders has, the fighting spirit, the need to fix this broken world. They're both so strong, Varric, stronger than anyone I've met. And they need me, and I need them. I'm a fuck up, but at least I can do right by the two of them."

"Would you have ever been in danger in the first place if it wasn't for them? Rescuing you from situations they caused isn't a credit to them," Varric counters. _Strong. Bullshit. If they were strong, they wouldn't keep pushing a drowning man under to get one last gasp of air._

"You know me," he says, swallowing. "I'm a trouble magnet. I'd get into trouble regardless. Like that stupid stunt with the bike. That wasn't Fen's fault, he was just there. I'm the one who loves racing, who is always pushing the limits of my bike."

"But he was the one that lead you to taking blue," Varric counters.

"I was the dumbass who–he won't take his blue. He hates the stuff. Keeps saying I can't understand what it's like. So I said, fine, I'll take it too, then I'll understand. That was me, not Fen."

In that moment, unknowingly, he echoes his father: a younger, less wise Malcolm had taken risks to get Varric the lyrium he needed, and had more than once offered to take some himself so he can understand, so they can be partners in this. Varric had refused, but Mal had offered more than once–if Varric had been less opposed to illegal substances...

"You fucking up because of him, yes," Varric says tiredly, his weariness increasing at the brush against old fights. "So you won't change. You'll keep helping them, ruining your life and putting your family in danger?" _Why can't he see what he's doing? No, it's worse than that- he sees, but doesn't care. Or... something. It's like he can't help himself but..._

"I won't put my family in danger. I'll find another way. They don't deserve to suffer for my mistakes any more than Fen does."

"No you won't. You're brilliant, Garrett. Clever and charming a top it. You have Mal's gift with people. More blind to their faults but more... steady in your regards. But. But you let yourself be taken in by people, let them use you."

"It's not like that. They're good people, you included, for all I know that you're not on the legal side of the law always either." _I won't what–I won't put them in danger, because I'll be dead? Maker. I know I don't deserve better but... Maker, please, I only tried to help._ He knows better than to think any god the Templars worship will come to his aid, but who else would?

"But I _never_ hurt my friends," Varric growls. "I would do anything for Mal, for the life he saved and the life he risked. I know he's imperfect, that's he's a bit feckless and not the best father or even a decent husband. But he's my friend and I thought you were too!"

"You're going to kill me," Garrett says, in a small voice. "Even though that would hurt my father like nothing else. You'd hurt him if it was needed to save him from worse pain. And you'd hurt me to save him. I didn't– you're like Fen, you don't trust often or easily. I thought you were like my father, with friends on every continent, but you're not. The only reason you've never been in this position is that you only trust one person, you don't have to juggle between people like I have."

_Only trust one person._ "Guess that's the trick," he agrees bitterly. "Because as soon as I trusted a second, he stabbed me in the back."

Garrett is quiet for a moment. Finally, he says, in a tired voice, "I did like you, Varric. I thought... I know I fucked up, but for what it's worth, I was your friend. I wasn't trying to play you or manipulate you, I really did just want to be your friend. But I guess I'm as poor a friend as I was a son, a twin, a big brother. Will you... I'm sure you'll lie to my father about what happened, but will you tell my twin the truth? It's just– someone should know what I did. What a fuck up I turned out to be. Someone should understand."

_Tell– right, Marian. Not a chance (haven't seen her in almost three years, barely spoken in five, who knows how she'd react?) sorry._ "We're not there yet. I... I want to..." He sighs. "I don't want this, Garrett. You've got such potential in you. And you're a good person. You just... I just can't trust you anymore. Even now, you're telling me you'd do it again, just 'better' in some nebulous way. You'd still help them if they asked."

"How could I not? Wouldn't you, if it was my dad?" he whimpers. _Don't want to kill me–maybe he won't? Slim chance. But more than nothing._

"Your father has _earned_ that sort of loyalty. Not just in deed but in lack- he's never turned on me, never used me. Sure, he depends on me, asks for favors- but it's always my choice and I've turned him down before without losing our friendship. It's just... it's like you lack that judgement, the ability to realize someone is asking him for more than even love and loyalty should grant them. Especially when it's not returned."

"It is returned," he whispers. "I– What we had was real. Just because we didn't put labels on it doesn't mean– Fen didn't want this, I came up with it. Anders... I don't know. I really don't. But I'd trust him with my life–have trusted him with my life. He's the one that treated my gunshot wound, he's the one– over and over, he saves me. I'm not my father. If anything, I'm more like you. I'm the one that needs a second chance."

"Neither one of them even _attempted_ to come and rescue you," Varric says bluntly. "They were more worried about trying to take as much of the lyrium as they could carry rather than you. Fenris... maybe. Maybe he cares a little. But Anders? No. He got close to you, invested in you, and then cashed in for the chance to score big and break the Amells. No, as long as they're in your life..."

"Maybe," says Garrett, subdued. "I don't think I'll ever find out for sure. But I just don't believe it."

"And that's why I can't trust you," Varric repeats. "You have plenty of evidence to realize it, but you refuse to look objectively at your relationship with them. How can I risk that? Letting you walk around, when you're willing to devote yourself to people that would hurt not just your family but you? And you won't even notice, much less stop them."

"They didn't hurt me," he says, his voice dull. "I did this to myself."

"No they–" Varric goes silent for a long moment. "You can't see them again. Ever. Fuck, all your old friends? Gone from your life."

Garrett is quiet for a long moment, struggling, really trying on the idea. _Accept it, Garrett. Don't be so damn stubborn. Take the deal, he might let you go. Just give up on them, the way they gave up on you. You can do that, can't you? Be selfish, let them go, stop yourself from caring?_

"I can't," he says, his voice barely audible. "I want to– I don't want to die. I really don't. But I can't give up on them. I physically can't. The idea of it rips me apart. I could devote myself to you the way I'm devoted to them, I could let you in and trust you and take your advice, but I can't just... give up on someone I love. I just can't."

_Devote myself to–_ The dwarf is glad that Garrett can't see him, as his expression twists in the effort of forcing that thought away. "What if it was to save them too?" Varric asks quickly.

"How would abandoning someone sa– you have Fen." He shudders. "Yes, anything you want. Just don't hurt him."

_No, but I shan't be disabusing you of the notion anytime soon._ "I will kill them, without mercy or hesitation, if they come near you again. Ever. For any reason. If you're worried about Fenris... I'm willing to supply him with the lyrium he needs to stay alive. But that's it. You stay away from them- and because I can't trust you, I'll ensure it."

"I– how would that work? I have to be able to warn them, I have to... I can't just vanish from their lives. Let me scale back, let me taper off..."

"No," Varric says sharply. "You want, I'll deliver a letter. That's it. If you try and contact them, I'll kill them."

"What if they contact me?" he pleads. "Fen knows where I live, and everything– he won't take it well."

"Then explain it well in your letter," Varric says mercilessly. "You've said he's left you before to 'keep you safe' so I doubt he'll struggle with it as much as you think."

"What if he needs something? What if he gets hurt and I'm not there? What if he's–" _don't say kidnapped._

"Either he figures it out himself or you come to me." Varric's expression is grim, though it's wasted on the currently blind man. "You've lost your right to offer your own help. You've lost the right to pick your own friends. You're effectively dead, Garrett, and anything you do from this point on is by my mercy. No more going out partying, no more meth or lyrium or drinking, no more Anders or Fenris. You'll go to work, to visit your family and that's it. You can pick between moving back in with your dad or with me. I'll be beefing up your bracelet to give me a constant feed of your location and putting in an audio pick-up so I can listen in if I think it's needed."

Garrett swallows, taking a deep breath, then another. "...don't hurt Fen," he says quietly. "If I fuck it up, my life is forfeit. Not his. He doesn't deserve to die because of me. I'll move in with you. You can put whatever you want on my bracelet. Just don't hurt Fenris."

_Even now, all he cares about is... Damn you to your Maker's hell, Garrett._ "Fine. Someone will be along to clean you up and take you out of here." Again, Garrett can hear the sound of Varric rising to his feet.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I'll try to be less of a fuck up this time. Thank you for– for letting me try."

There's silence, a long few moments of it. Finally, a sigh. "I know you are. Just... just try and learn. Please."

* * *

Garrett's cleanup is interrupted by vomiting, but he gets cleaned, puts on ill-fitting jeans someone clearly bought at a big box store, and gets into the vehicle waiting to take him to Varric's place.

He barely takes note of the exterior except to note the gate, the fact the driver has to be buzzed in. He doesn't note the exterior cameras, the security system; he barely registers the open, sunny floor plan, nor the hints of metal shutters that can slide down to prevent bullets from piercing those lovely bay windows. He doesn't lift his head to note the large kitchen, the sturdy oak dining table, the solid living room set, the fact that there's a clear line of sight from one end of the front area to the other. He mounts the steps up the split level, to the back area where the bedrooms are, failing to spot the steps down to the basement. When he gets to the guest room–spacious, but with a smaller window, with iron bars over it instead of shutters–he collapses onto the bed, kicking the door shut and curling into a ball atop the covers.

He remains there, sobbing, shivering, letting the adrenaline rush out of his body, until shortly before dinner, when Varric comes to add the second bangle to his anklet–the one with the mic on it. He doesn't look up as Varric does the deed, head buried in his pillow, leg stuck out to where Varric can get at it.

"Any thoughts on what we're going to tell Mal?" Varric asks quietly as he works. _Damn strange, having someone here. The only person to have ever used this room is Mal, and that's only been a dozen times or so (not in the last couple of years either)._

"Whatever you like."

Garrett's voice is flat, dull; his body feels numb, heavy, distant. He can't bring himself to care what his father thinks. He can't bring himself to care about much at all right now. Not unless Varric's come to relent, to tell him he can have Fenris after all.

"..." Varric works silently for a few minutes. "Break up with the secret boyfriend- don't even try," he snaps. "Neither of us give a fuck if you like men, it's fine."

"He's not my boyfriend," Garrett says, his heart heavy, but he continues this time, instead of stopping there: "we never defined the relationship. I love him. I never even said it. I knew it would spook him. The times we fucked we pretended were an accident, just something that happened, not something we both wanted. But they kept happening. Fen's so–he pretends he hates me, that he owes me a debt and he'd never be caught dead with me otherwise, but when push comes to shove, he comes to me for help. When he needs to feel safe, he comes to me. I don't know what to call that."

_Fucked up_. "Well, boyfriend will have to do for your dad," Varric says in a more gentle tone. "You deserved more than that," he finds himself adding.

"I _had_ more than that. But of all the people I was fucking, Fen was the most... Fen _meant_ the most. Means, the most." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "It works, for a cover story. I don't have to give specifics. Just, I got dumped, hard, so hard he left town and send the breakup over text, too cowardly to do it in person."

Varric scowls a little but calms himself before it shows long. "I think I'll mention you went and got a bunch of booze, but called me before you got too far into it. Figured you needed a place to crash that wasn't... anywhere with memories. Mal'll be thrilled you reached out for help." He tries, he really does. But that last... it has some edge to it.

"Don't bother," Garrett says, with a bitter edge. "Tell him I got real drunk, didn't turn up for work, and you stopped by to find me working up the nerve to take a bunch of Blue. Let him know I fucked up. Then you won't have to hide how much you despise me."

"And he'll hover, look harder," Varric says evenly. "Neither of us want him to find out what happened at that warehouse. Right?" _Little bit of spine still in there, good._

"Tell him I tried to jump off a roof, then. I don't know. Suicide watch justifies my living with you."

"Any reason why you want him to..." Varric frowns, then finally goes with, "react that sort of way?"

"I don't want him congratulating me on the biggest mistake of my life," he says, still bitter. "Better he think I'm a fuck-up. At least it'd be true."

"You're not all... your loyalty does you credit," Varric says carefully. "You fucked-up but that doesn't mean you can't be better."

"We'll see," he mumbles, into the pillow. _When they find Fenris' body, I guess. Unless the people who made him take him. Then they'll never find it. He'll just vanish._

Varric finishes with the bracelet, studying Garrett. "Sit up," he says firmly.

Garrett stays put, face pressed into the pillow, silent.

"Last chance. Sit. Up."

"Or what?" he mutters. _He's not going to kill me over sulking._

Varric moves a bit out of the way, then grabs Garrett by the leg and rips him out of the bed to fall on his side. "That."

He yelps, hissing, as he lands hard on the floor. "Mother–"

"Poor baby. Now sit up properly while we talk."

Garrett grimaces, shifting around to sit up, his back against the bed. "Maker. Alright, what?"

_Good, he can learn. Slowly, but he can learn._ "What is rules. Specifically, the new ones you're going to abide by in your new life."

"Alright," he says slowly, looking up at the dwarf. "I'm listening."

"First of all, a recap. You're either here, at work or at your dad's. Anywhere else, you need permission. If you try to wander, I will know and I will have you picked up. In time, we can talk about adding places or loosening that a bit but right now, you're at zero trust."

"Yeah, I got that part," he mumbles, rubbing his hip.

"Good. Second, I've modified your phone: anything you see, send, say or hear with it gets logged. I'll be doing the same to your other electronics. I won't bug your room or anything unless you give me a reason for it."

"Might as well have–phone's got a mic," he mumbles. "And so does my ankle. But I figured. You're making sure I'm not cheating, right? I got it."

"I meant cameras but true enough. No drugs or booze, at all." _Shit, what else?_ "Family dinners will continue of course, figure on two to three a week."

"What am I meant to say if someone at work invites me for a drink afterward?" he asks, his voice a touch sullen.

"Try 'I'm busy, see you tomorrow.' Or 'sorry, just had a bad breakup, not on the market yet.' You're clever, come up with something suitable," Varric says with an eyeroll. "But good for asking, I suppose. That's another rule: fucking _talk_ to me. If there's a problem you can't solve without crossing a line or using someone? Talk to me. If someone is in trouble and you feel the need to help? Talk to me. If you feel the urge to just get a little something to make the day go smoother or brighter or better..."

"Talk to you," he mutters, sullen. "Got it." _We'll see._

"Hey," Varric snaps. "Speak up, speak clear, and don't fucking lie. No more lies, understood?"

"That's unreasonable," he protests–though, Varric notes, a touch louder, less sullen.

"So?"

"Fine, but I reserve the right to not answer. I told you, I'm not telling you Fen's secrets."

"Challenge accepted: I have a name and a picture, I can eventually find out everything," Varric replies. "Regardless. No lies."

"Not for Fen. Most people probably. Anders– Maker, please don't go looking for Anders. But not Fen." He takes a deep breath. "Understood. No lies."

"...will his secrets come back on the Amells or me?" Varric asks quietly.

"No. Not unless you count me. Some of the guys after him know I'm one of his friends, they set an ambush a few months ago. Back in March. But since I'm not going anywhere but work and here and home, it won't matter."

"Bodyguard or just a taser and an asp?"

"I can handle it. I'll call you if I get jumped, though. Last time, Anders healed me. It was when I called out sick–I got shanked, I was on my way to his place to get healed."

"Taser and asp then, let me know if it escalates." He studies Garrett carefully. "I'll leave a copy of the letter you write at his and your flats. Anywhere else I should leave one?"

"Can't I send it digital? I don't know where he'll be, other than not anywhere I know of, just in case." He rubs the back of his neck. "Fen thinks like that–that if I'm caught, I could be forced to give him up."

"You can give it to me to send digital," Varric counters.

"You can see everything I send anyway–it's not like I could hide it."

"Sure, but I'll need to strip it to a rich text doc, change the formatting a little and add a filler word here and there," Varric says with a puzzled frown.

He blinks. "No, the point is I _don't_ want you fucking changing what I send."

"I need to break any codes you're slipping in," the dwarf says, then blinks. "Which you hadn't thought of to do in the first place. Well. Better safe than sloppy."

Garrett groans. "If I had a code set up I'd be less of a fuck-up, Varric." Which isn't _entirely_ accurate. There are things he's thought to say that might give away that he's being coerced, though he doesn't have a detailed code to hide a message in. He just... doesn't want Fenris thinking he's leaving by choice. _Best case, he notices and stays well the hell away from me._

Varric shrugs. "I suspect most people don't have codes set up," he admits. "So... less 'fuck-up' and more 'rational levels of wariness' or something." _Because I have to allow that I am perhaps too security conscious (impossible), even with my history._

"People who are serious kidnap risks do, and that's both of us, so you'd think we'd have sorted this out."

"Usually just a panic phrase at most. But if you don't have that, we can work one up." He frown again, brow furrowing. "Mal never did that with you four?"

"Yeah, but Fen doesn't know it. Nobody knows it but us. That's how you keep from being tricked."

_Fenris? Oh. Fair. Wait, why does..._ "Sure, but you and your sibs need it more, right?" he fishes. _What would a dwarf-blooded elf be up to that would..._

He gives a bitter laugh. "Nah. I'm such a fuck-up, I found someone more valuable than me." He flinches, then, seeming to recall who he's talking to. "Nevermind. Just– I should get started on that letter. Any other rules?"

"...we'll work more out as we go, I'm sure," Varric says after a moment.

"Fine. I'll get started on that letter."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's been caught stealing lyrium; now he has to obey Varric and stay away from Fenris and Anders, or his life is forfeit. Can he do it? Or will this be the end of what was once a budding friendship? And can he get Fenris to leave _him_ alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: Guns (no violence)

The letter, when Garrett hands it to Varric the next morning, reads as follows:

> Fenris,
> 
> Let me begin by apologizing. I can't express how sorry I am, but this letter is going to hurt you. I promised over and over I'd never hurt you, and yet here I am, breaking that promise.
> 
> When you left me behind to be captured during our last adventure, I came to an epiphany. We can't keep living like this, you and I. I know you've said it before, and you were right – this is no life for me, or for you. I argued before, I know. I couldn't help it. I didn't want to leave you. I didn't know what else to do. You're precious to me, little wolf, more than I can express. I hope you know that. I hope you've felt it.
> 
> I promised I'd never leave you in the lurch, and I won't. I've arranged for a new supplier, and I'm paying him, so don't let him fleece you out of your money. I can't free you from the leash, but please, for my sake, don't throw away your life without giving it a chance.
> 
> I wish I could put into words everything inside my head, but I just can't. I'm sorry. I will miss you every day of my life. But I have to move on. I have to try and find a life I can live, not one that will lead us both to our deaths.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Garrett

Varric barely skims the letter before handing it back. "Rewrite it."

Garrett looks up at him, frowning. "What? Why?"

"Two reasons: one, way too many references to things that smell like tells. Two, I said so." _And three, because most people use their best tells in the first draft, so if I make you rewrite it without them..._

"It's not going to be any better," he warns. "I have to make him believe I wrote it, and I have to make him not question what's going on. I know we agreed my life is on the line, not his, but I don't trust you not to shoot him for the hell of it for making you kill me."

"Leaning more towards Anders for that but that's an understandable concern," Varric admits. "Drop the capture part, make it sound more like you're grounded, not imprisoned."

He narrows his eyes. "Fine. I'll try."

> Fenris,
> 
> Let me begin by apologizing. I can't express how sorry I am. I promised over and over I'd never hurt you, and yet here I am, breaking that promise. But I've decided we cannot be together. I wanted to tell you in person, but it's going to be a long time before I'm going to be able to get away to see you. Please don't come looking, you'll only get me in worse trouble.
> 
> When you left me behind during our last adventure, my boss found me and brought me home to my father. As he raged at me, I came to an epiphany. We can't keep living like this, you and I. You were right; this is no life for me, or for you. I didn't want to leave you. I didn't know what else to do. You're precious to me, little wolf, more than I can express. I hope you know that.
> 
> I promised I'd never leave you in the lurch, and I won't. I've arranged for a new supplier, and I'm paying him, just like before, so you won't have to worry about that. I can't free you from the leash, but please, for my sake, don't throw away your life without giving it a chance. Please try to find a way to live with this addiction. I know it's hard. It's harder than anything you've ever done. But please. You're worth more than that.
> 
> I wish I could put into words everything inside my head, but I just can't. I'm sorry. I will miss you every day of my life. But I have to move on. I have to try and find a life I can live, not one that will lead us both to our deaths.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Garrett

"...how extensive are his implants?" Varric asks quietly after rereading it a few times. "How much lyrium does he need?"

Garrett rattles off a figure – more than triple what Varric had ballparked. Varric coughs softly. "The hell? How does– how is he even able to support that level of tech?" _No eldwa (hell, no hybrid dwarf and very few pureblood dwarves) should be able to support the tech needed to use that much lyrium._

"I can't tell you that," says Garrett automatically. _He doesn't assume I'm lying? I figured he'd call me a liar, like that Xhu guy did._

Varric studies Garrett intently. "Look, if he's using that much, it's either overkill and he's getting high off it or there's something drastically wrong with his implants."

"I swear to you, he's not getting high off it."

"So his implants are malfunctioning? Garrett, that's major. Muscle spasms, strokes, seizures, heart attacks, aneurysms– all sorts of shit. He needs to see a specialist, like months ago."

Garrett stares at his hands in his lap, taking a deep breath. "I– I know," he whispers. "Dammit, Varric, I can barely get him to take the lyrium at all, and he can't see a specialist. What am I supposed to do? I know a little healing. For emergencies, he can't– you know he can't be healed normally."

"I have specialists who– my implants are... very non-standard. I have my own doctor and cyber-specialist, who I've vetted... a lot. Repeatedly. You could have–" He takes a deep breath. "Well, too late now. He'll just have to figure his own life out. I'm busy with you and you can't be trusted to help anyone right now."

But the mage is already shaking his head. "I _can't_ , Varric. Couldn't have. I wish– I just wish I could have gotten you and Fen to meet, to trust each other. If I could have figured out how, you could have been so good for him. But he won't trust anyone but me, and I don't blame him. I– I'm terrified he'll try to get sober again, without me to make him take it."

Varric can hear the raw pain in Garrett's voice, whether he wants to or not; this doesn't sound like a work, like someone trying to pull the wool over his eyes. This sounds like Mal, desperate to find a way to fix Garrett's life, to save him from whatever was going on that landed his son in the hospital.

"Sober? Well, for one, stop calling it that: if he's only using as much as his implants need, he _is_ sober. It's like oxygen, he needs it to live. Sure, you can take extra and get high, but..."

"He calls it that. He wants to go cold turkey. He hates being on the stuff."

"Tough shite. He needs to grow the fuck up then. You have to deal with the world, with life, the way it actually is. if you can change your circumstances, then you should. But if you can't, denying that things are the way they are... It's just going to make you miserable, or dead. He has implants. If he's not willing to have them removed, if that's even still an option for him, then he has to do what he needs to do."

"It's not an option," Garrett replies quietly. "Maker. I wish– it doesn't matter now." He takes a deep breath. "You can get him the blue?"

"...yeah. that amount was street crap, right? Industrial grade at best, cut with other drugs?" When Garrett nods, Varric nods back. "Yeah, I can get medical grade in that amount. But he needs to get checked out."

"I can't make him do anything," he sighs. "Maybe you can. I don't know. But I can't."

"Neither can I. At least for now. Maybe after a few months of getting lyrium safety from me, he'll be willing to talk. And maybe you'll be ready to be there for it."

Garrett straightens, something like hope kindling in his eyes. "I could? I– please, I'll do whatever it takes. Whatever you need."

_Like tempting a puppy. Stone cracks..._ "Yeah, well, for today, go ahead and get set up," he says, nodding at the desktop in the corner of the room. "We can go to your flat tomorrow and get your things. I'll have some movers met us there. Make up a list for me of anything else you need."

The mage nods. "I won't need much that I don't have at my flat. I live pretty simple."

* * *

As it turns out, that's not a humble-brag. There's very little food in the cabinets, and most of it cheap things: huge bags of rice and beans, tinned vegetables, protein shakes and Power Bars. His clothes are more expensive, but they don't take up much space; his game consoles and games take up more space, but many of them are older, not the newest titles. His laptop is, of course, top of the line, like his phone. His walls are decorated with posters, very college-dorm aesthetic; his furniture is nice, fairly new, but he's clearly not spending much of the money his father sends on the monthly on himself.

_Stone, how does he live like this? Why is– oh. Right. That much lyrium has to run ten grand a month, easy. Combine that with everything else..._ Scowling, Varrric starts the process to 'unrent' the flat using his cyber-boost block, the mini one he can keep tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket.

When Garrett approaches toward the end of the day with a locked box, he opens it, then blanks his expression as he sees the contents: tabs, vials, needles. "...thank you," he says quietly, tucking it into his bag. Then frowns. "What're the tabs?"

"X. Ecstasy. I don't use them often, just drop a tab or two when I go out partying, but I haven't done that in a while. Fen prefers fights, or I can talk him into racing – he's not one for clubs."

"Fights?" Varric asks, eyes narrowing.

"Underground fights. MMA. That's where we were going when we crashed our bikes – the guy I had you text organized the bout. Fen mostly fights, I'm his manager."

Varric closes his eyes for a long moment, then exhales slowly. "I... see. Why?"

"Fenris has... a lot of pent-up energy. Rage, really. Again, I don't blame him for that. But... he needed an outlet. Something constructive to do. We started doing martial arts together, and he turns out to be great at them. But he wouldn't do the tournaments. Fame, getting his name out there, scared him. So I found him someplace he could compete, win some cash, burn off some steam, without risking becoming famous."

"That's actually pretty clever," Varric says with a faint smile. "Have you ever proposed getting a new ident to him? If he's that worried about his name and such?"

"He has three. But he's very... memorable."

Varric cocks his head to the side, nodding a little. "Could dye the hair. Get his eyes colored. Facial reconstruction surgery maybe."

"Hair dye won't take. His hair isn't– there's some sort of magical feedback effect, it won't hold the dye for more than a day or so. Surgery might work."

Varric's eyes widen. _How much fucking tech is–_ "Electrostatic envelope. Hair is a very good conductor, relatively speaking. But... unless he's got an energy output–shock node, RADAR or LADAR beacon or something like that," _which he had best not, given that those are high end military cybernetics,_ "–then it implies he's got a power bleed somewhere." Garrett just shrugs, helplessly, and Varric rubs at his temple. "Great. Alright.... any tips you can give about not... spooking him? If he's got that sort of wear on his implants..."

"He doesn't... _want_ to hurt anyone. Just don't push him. He's scared of strangers, in a big way. If he thinks you're likely to hurt him or get him captured, he'll freak. Don't try to lure him somewhere or box him in."

"Alright." Varric hesitates, then sighs. "Any other strays you've been feeding?"

He looks away. "You know about this... whatever it is with Anders. Isabela's not really my responsibility, she takes care of herself, we're just... we just choose to associate freely as equals whenever she's in town." He winces a little. "The rest are all one night stands and occasional acquaintances."

"Isabela?" Varric asks, distracted. _What are the odds that..._ "Dark hair, dark eyes, wicked sense of humor that's half-flirt, half brag and all confidence? Big dreams of travel?"

He nods. "She's a flight attendant. Always gone on long international flights. Amazing in bed."

"...normally I would say that you shouldn't share that sort of thing but given that she seems to have... gotten _worse_ rather than mellowed or even stayed the same, then she'd probably approve of the brag on her behalf." _Ain't that something? Guess she's done well for herself (wish she hadn't gotten Garrett on E, thanks) since that very, very strange weekend. Flight attendant..._ "Which airline?"

"Not sure. I can find ou– no, I'm not allowed to see her."

Varric almost smiles. "How does she let you know when she's around?"

"Text, usually." He shrugs. "I text a lot."

"I'll leave that number a way through the filter. Just let me know when she gets ahold of you; hell, feel free to tell her that dwarf in Kuwait would love to met up for lunch to catch up."

"In... Kuwait?" he blinks. "Uh. Sure. If you say so."

"I used to travel a lot more than I do these days," Varric says with a grin. "If it really is the same Isabela, she'll know what I mean."

"...alright," he says slowly. "I'll pass that along."

Looking amused, Varric gestures at Garrett as to give permission to ask, if he wants. But oddly enough, the mage makes a face, shaking his head. "No, I think I'd rather not know what you and her got up to in Kuwait." _And why does it bother me that much? Am I feeling possessive of Isabela? No way. I've never cared who she fucks before. Why would that have changed, she's not even in town!_

Varric's amusement dims noticeably. "Wasn't like that," he says evenly. "Just... gave her a lift, so to speak, to greener pastures."

"Oh," Garrett says, and hell if he doesn't perk up slightly. "That's pretty cool, then."

"Got a bit of a thing for her, huh?" _Maybe have that lunch met-up with just us two first..._

Garrett shakes his head. "She's just a– a friend, with benefits. Sorry, I don't know what's gotten into me today. Maybe it's because of Fen. I don't know. I'm not usually this... possessive."

Varric manages to suppress the smile until Garrett turns away. _Possessive, huh? I can work with that._

* * *

Varric's phone doesn't often ring at nine in the evening. But it's unsurprising tonight when it does – the first Family Dinner Night after the warehouse job. When he picks up, Mal, begins unceremoniously – and unamusedly:

"So I had an interesting conversation with my son over dinner."

"He's a pretty good conversationalist," Varric agrees easily. "Good sense of humor, fair hand at storytelling but not unwilling to let others talk."

"Cut the crap, Varric," says Mal, in a sharp tone. "He says he's living with you now?"

Varric shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, seemed better than letting him get through this on his own."

"Did you know about this secret boyfriend?" he asks, his voice still hard.

"Not as such until just recently. I ran until them at the cherry blossom deal, but Garrett introduced him as just a friend," he replies in an almost gentle tone. "Mal, what's this about?"

"Something's wrong here and I can't put my finger on it. He won't come to me, but he comes to you? Why? And how come I've never heard of this Anders fellow before but you have?"

_Anders? Stu– that's fine but fucking tell me that sort of shit (why not Fenris?). What if I had said his name first?_ "Like I said, just random chance at the festival. As for why me... not completely sure. Combination of things: for one, I caught him. Two, I'm not his dad. He's a weird mix of proud and shy about his problems; adding in the 'uncool' factor of running to daddy is evidently too far."

"He said you found his drug stash – what was in it? _Really_ what, not just the shit he admitted to?"

"Meth, E and a vial of blue, the same dose size as the ones we found at that Fenris guy's place. No empties and his tests haven't shown a hint of it in his system. I tested him right after, clean. BAL was... unhealthy but nothing else," Varric rattles off without hesitation or stammer.

"Meth," Mal says, bitterly. "Maybe that's why he's so skinny. He's been filling out more since we started testing him. Guess he had to kick the habit." Malcolm takes a deep breath, and Varric can hear the clink of ice against glass in the background. Sounds like Garrett's not the only one drinking his problems away lately.

"Where did I go wrong, Varric? I tried to be the sort of father my kids could come to with anything. Maker knows Marian called me all the time as a girl – fights, parties she needed a ride from. But Garrett never. And now this... where did I misstep? How did I fail him so badly?"

Varric is quiet a moment. "You want me to speculate or comfort?"

"I want the truth. I'm well past wanting to be coddled – I want to know."

"Leandra. More specifically, you letting her have nearly complete oversight over their raising for the first decade or so. I get that you needed to focus on work but... I think Garrett internalized 'man of the house' syndrome. He can't seem to grasp the idea of not helping, or the idea of asking for help. The later is slowly coming along, but I still have to press, mostly. And I think it's easier to come to me, because he still thinks of you as this almost mythical Father, who if he can just impress enough... And of course, his rivalry with Marian has made him decide he's lesser and stupid, a fuck-up. So he runs hot and cold, swinging from doing everything to succeed and figuring why bother."

"Garrett's never come off as insecure – and I thought he had a great relationship with his twin. When she's around. I figured his problem was abandonment, loneliness – but insecurity? Really?"

_Are you... dammit Mal, how can you not see..._ "Yes, I'm sure. Oh don't get me wrong, I'm sure Garrett loves his sister, even likes her most of the time. But... she's got more of your kind of gifts. Scientific genius and drive. And he considers you the benchmark; after being raised hearing how you saved the Amells, how you're the brightest star of your generation and so forth, how could he not? So when Miss Perfectionist starts winning the majority of every contest and competition, even the ones just in his own head..."

"They were always evenly matched as children," he says slowly. "But... I can't recall the last time Garrett won an award. Perhaps, senior year of high school? I suppose... yes, I can see that now, in hindsight. I never had anyone to compare to, you'll recall. I suppose having your twin outshine you– but drugs? _Drugs_?"

"Well... if your work is worth less than everyone else, which he fears and half-believes some of the time, then one way to try and at least keep up is to work more. Hence the meth: sleep and motivation in a needle. The E was just for clubbing, same as alcohol really. And the blue... that was evidently just a one off. One of his friends, an eldwa, has implants like his dwarven parent but the elven view of lyrium. So Garrett was dumb– but loyal– enough to pull the 'we'll take it together, it's no big deal' ploy."

"That Fenris fellow – he's _Shirén_?" The fact that Mal's worked up and yet still shies away from the common yet mildly offensive d-word does him credit – though it does Varric more, having been the one to teach him. His tone here is one of relief: he has an explanation, something he can latch onto.

"Yeah. Well, half or something like that," Varric replies. "Looks favor his elven blood but he's got a fair bit of tech in him. Suspect he regrets it now though; just a wild theory, but I suspect his dwarven parent pushed him into it when he was younger." The younger a person is, the safer and the more successful the integration with cybernetics will be. Of course, this also means that the person whose body is going to be forever altered is less mature and thus less sure of their future and choices. The more conservative Shirén, who insist that implantation must start at age three at the latest, get a lot of heat from humans about that.

"Alright. We don't know for sure that he's not getting that lyrium from an unethical but legal supplier – it's not good quality, but it might be just cheap. I had one of the vials tested, it's definitely street-quality, but we've seen suppliers before that buy up local street supplies when tariffs go up. It's... plausible. Maker. Maker." Malcolm takes a deep breath, banishing all thought of the half-dwarf half-elf from his mind. "Do you think he'll be alright? Now that he's... he sounded regretful. Like he's learning, at least a little."

"I... I think so. I think he's hitting bottom now and... I don't plan to ask him to leave. I think moving home would be too much. Like admitting he can't be an adult, that he has to run back to daddy. Crashing with a friend for a bit, on the other hand... if he stays for more than a week, I might start hinting at letting his flat go and paying rent to me instead. House is big enough. Kind of nice, having someone around." _The hell did that come from?_

Malcolm sighs, but there's a smile in it. "Sometimes I regret marrying Lea so fast," he admits, swirling his drink. He must be a few in, to be saying that openly while he's at home; he usually worries someone will overhear. "It would have been nice to be roommates, if I hadn't been married by the time we met."

Varric is quiet a moment, thinking on it as well. "Could have been interesting," he finally says. _Would have been torture, at first. We'd have made a bad pair (I'd be part of it), I think, in the long run, but I would have wanted (more than I can have)... Stop it._ "But think of the downsides: would you really have wanted me to be Viscount of Kirkwall? Because the two of us forced that close to each other for that long, we'd have at least _started_ conquering the world."

Malcolm chuckles – a pained chuckle, but a real one. "No, I suppose you're right. And if I hadn't married Lea, I wouldn't have had the children I do. As bad as this is, I'd never, ever trade Garrett for anything else."

"...maybe tell him that. No hedging, no lecture, just.. tell him that," Varric says quietly.

"Maybe you're right." He sighs. "Never have kids," he advises.

_Not a problem._ "Meh. I have employees, close enough."

* * *

One thing Varric didn't quite consider when he put together this plan: monitoring Garrett's internet use means monitoring Garrett's life, given he's no longer seeing any of his friends. In the next few weeks, Varric comes to realize just how hyper-sexual Garrett is. Fully a quarter of his idle time seems to be spent on free porn websites, looking up bdsm and gay porn. He doesn't shy away from things with women in them, but he watches far too much gay porn to be in the closet, at least to himself. And the kink stuff seems to hold his attention pretty well, too.

He doesn't notice, but Varric's filtering algorithms do, how much of the ones he click on involve dwarves. Or, well, "dwarves" mostly. Those implants look like something out of Star Trek, not realistic at all. And who the hell gets implants in their dick?!

* * *

Garrett eats lunch at his desk most days. If he never makes new friends, he can't have them taken away, or something like that. But sometimes a man goes a little stir crazy, decides to take lunch at 11 instead of 1, and hides in the corner at the outdoor seating area just for a change of pace. Too bad he's been spotted.

"Crikey! Is that- it is! The illusive Garrett has emerged from his den to seek new foraging grounds," a faintly familiar voice murmurs from nearby. "Wowzers, folks, we should-"

"Dale! Stop it!" A more familiar, female voice this time.

_Oh no. Crap. Crap crap crap. I didn't want to–_ "Hey," he says, and despite his best efforts, his smile feels shallow and false, his voice sounds subdued, like he's got a touch of the flu. He was up late last night browsing the internet, and he knows he looks it; he can fool himself that the touch of puffiness from his bathroom break before deciding, entirely unprompted and apropos of nothing at all, to take an early lunch isn't visible, at least.

Dale the elf plops himself down across from Garrett. "Long time no– wow you look like shit. Sick, no sleep, hungover or drama?" Despite the playful tone, his eyes are just a little worried. Quietly, Juanita takes a seat next to her friend, also regarding him with concern.

"Little of column A, little of column B?" he hazards. "Well, not hungover exactly. Sober. One hundred per cent sober."

"Congratulations," Juanita says softly, lips curving in a warm smile. "That is a hard step to take."

Dale glances at his friend, but doesn't comment on the perhaps too familiar tone she uses. "Need someone to unload on? I... am terrible at relationship advice but am an expert, nay, master of supportive bitching."

"I can't even be mad, not really. I was a shitty boyfriend, I deserved to be dumped." _Not that I was._ "I just... I don't know. I guess I was born to be a fuck-up." He rubs at his temples with one hand, prodding his untouched food with the other.

Dale clicks his tongue. "Sweetie, no-one with that soulful gaze you got is a total fuck-up. Or that smile. Oh, and you're also swiftly becoming something of a star around here. No-one is quite sure what Super Totally Secret Project you're on, but people have noticed you hobnobbing with the C-levels. Plus, my once best friend and utter bitch for not spilling the gossips here has nothing but praise for you. Well, praise and- ooof!"

Juanita offers a bland smile. "Something wrong Dale?"

Wheezing, the elf shakes his head. "Not a thing, Neets," he gasps, clutching his stomach.

Garrett chuckles. "Thanks, Dale – is that your real name or a nickname, by the way?"

Dale's head snaps up, eyes widening with horror. Before he can get the breath together to answer- lie- his friend answers for him. "Oh, it's a nickname," she says airily. After a beat to let him hope she's going to be merciful, she adds with relish, "his actual name is Dancing Forward with our Traditions To Carry them Ever Onward with Joy. He prefers Dale though."

Groaning, Dale rests his head on the table. "Hatemyparents," he mumbles. "Hateyou."

Garrett laughs. "I'd choose Dale, too," he admits.

Sighing dramatically, Dale lifts his head. "No-one would bother with the full of it in school, so most people called me 'Dalish kid' as I was the only elf in the whole school. Human neighborhood and such. So I started telling people to just call me Dale."

Garrett glances away, taking a sudden, sharp breath. "Sorry," he says, after a moment. "My– the guy I was– he was Dalish."

_Guy? So you were–_ Juanita's musings are interrupted by Dale saying, "ah, so you are one of my ilk, I thought so! No man with eyes so pretty could possibly be straight. It would be too cruel."

"Dale, you can't just claim every handsome man for gaydom."

"Why not?"

"I'm straight!" the mage protests. "Just... mostly. Just except for him. And that's over now, so, back on the vag wagon, right?"

"...vag wagon?" Juanita asks evenly, eyes narrowed.

"Oh come on, it's just an expression," he says, with a self-conscious chuckle. "I know not all people with vaginas are girls."

"Wow," Dale marvels. "That is impressive, really."

"Perhaps simply do not, ah, reduce people to their privates to classify them? At all?" adds Juanita

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just, the rhyme doesn't work otherwise. Like, what, the girl... boat? The 'dress express' sounds like I'm crossdressing or something."

"About the het-man van?" Dale offers. "Put the focus on you, not someone else. So you're opting to drive the het-man van again. Which is a horrid choice, mind you, gay is the way."

"The Straight Freight?" he jokes. "My manhood was never in question here."

"Straight Freight is _almost_ clever," Juanita allows.

"Was it not? Because I could check if you want to be sure," Dale grins. "Or I'm sure Neets would love to," he adds in a rush, getting a glare and a blush.

Garrett levels a finger at Dale. "See, _that's_ transphobic, one of my best friends has a vag and he's still a dude," he points out. "Turns out, as different as dudes and chicks are, it's not that hard to tell."

"He has a point," Neets says thoughtfully. "Him having a cock or not should not make any difference."

Garrett raises an eyebrow. "Wait, am I more informed than you guys? That might be the first time that's ever happened."

"Never met a trans person before," Dale replies with a shrug.

"...that you know of," Neets points out, still thoughtful.

"Well, shit. Ask me anything. I had to learn a ton my first year of dealing with this shit, and better I get asked than him, am I right?" Garrett gives his most disarming smile.

"Ummm." Neets pauses, not sure where to start.

"How about the introductory lecture?" Dale asks. "You know, the dos and don'ts, the words to use and so forth. Like for instance, if a hetro calls me a fag, Imma... be very quietly angry and hurt because I can't fight worth shit."

"Anyone calls you a fag, you send them to me," he begins, then winces a bit. "Well. Nevermind that. But generally the words to avoid are shemale, dyke, tranny, the basic insulting shit. One half's your MtF, they say 'trans woman' these days, and the other half's your FtM like my friend, they say 'trans man'. Or just man. A lot of them don't like to be reminded they're trans. My friend stopped going to the social gatherings well before he went on T – uh, testosterone. He had to take puberty blockers to avoid becoming a woman, and testosterone to simulate male puberty instead, he'll be on that forever since he doesn't make his own. It's generally not polite to ask about their junk."

"I think that last is a good rule for anyone," Neets says with a laugh. "At least until you are very close anyway."

Dale mouths silently, 'she wants to ask about your junk.'

"In case you're wondering, my junk is amazing," Garrett jokes. "And unfortunately off-limits for now. I need to sort out my life before I get into a rebound."

"Understandable," Neets says with a smile. "Rebound relationships are never healthy and rarely fun. Dale, you don't count."

"Why not?" quips the elf.

"Because _all_ of your relationships are rebounds."

"So?"

Garrett gives a perfunctory chuckle – but to his surprise, he does feel a little better. Maybe having friends at work can be alright. At least, if he keeps things strictly to lunch hour. After all, he's _very_ grounded.

* * *

Varric makes a habit of checking the parking garage cameras before he leaves at night, mostly because he leaves fairly late into the evening, and alone, since even Garrett's been catching an uber 'home' before Varric finishes up. The cameras showed no sign of activity near his car, as usual, so he'd gone to it, not a thought of danger on his mind.

The white-haired elf sitting on the hood, a handgun casually in one hand, is rather surprising.

The elf leans against the windshield, clearly settled in to wait; his feet are flat on the hood, a position he can get up from faster, knees bent. His arms rest on his knees, hands dangling between his legs, the gun in one hand – finger off the trigger, but safety off – neither brandished nor hidden.

"Where's Garrett?" he says, as Varric exits the door to the building some fifteen feet from his VIP parking space.

Mini-B slips into the dwarf's hand with a wisp of focus, but he doesn't risk raising it. "Fenris, right? Was wondering if you'd get in touch. Mind getting off the car while we talk? Kind of expensive." _Damn. Better hacker than I would have guessed (and damned if I can see even a hint of dwarf in him). He'd best have not killed anyone to get in here..._

"That's not an answer," the elf replies, narrowing his eyes a touch. "Where is he?"

"Safe. Alive. Recovering. Away from you and especially Anders."

The elf makes a dismissive noise with his teeth. "You want to end the mage, be my guest. But I don't take your word for his safety, _dwarf_."

"Good for you. Got an address and last name for the mage?"

"He pulled a runner. Where. is Garrett." He lifts his hand a touch, as if to remind Varric he's carrying a loaded gun.

"Not your problem anymore," Varric says softly. "No, sorry: _you_ were _his_ problem. I get having been dealt a shit hand, I really do. But I can't let you abuse him anymore. You and Anders walked off with enough of my damn lyrium that even half will keep you alive for months. Just make sure you only take a fifteenth by volume measure or you're going to overdose hard. What you tricked Garrett into stealing from me is much purer and more refined than the street crap you've been using."

"Abuse," he sneers. "That idiot. What has he been telling you?" Despite the irritation, there's something almost fond in his tone. It's subtle, but it's there – if you know how to listen for it.

"Enough. Most of it by accident. You refuse to simply accept his help, making him put out extra effort to salve your ego and pride. You refuse to take your biologically required lyrium, making yourself sick, often and regularly enough that he takes it himself just to coax you into it, despite it being a poisonous intoxicant for him. You drag him into pit-fighting to give you an outlet for your rage and aggression. You're so worried about seeming tough and... whatever, that despite knowing how much he cares for you– and you for him, in your own stunted way– you can't even bring yourself to admit you were dating. Hell, you looked put upon and begrudging just holding his damn hand, as if doing a favor to some peasant."

"I don't _want_ his damn help," he snarls. "I told him to go the fuck home, to focus on his studies. I never wanted to ruin his fucking life. But you can go right to hell if you think I'm going to let him be suffer because he tried to save me. You're not his father. You're not anything. Let him go. I see him safe at home with his father, I'll return my share of the lyrium and neither of you will hear from me again."

"He was just over Mal's this last night for dinner," Varric says blandly. "I don't have him locked up in some cell, _eldwa_ ," he says, a mocking tone on the racial label in imitation of Fenris's own use. "Just keeping him away from you. But I did agree to take over supplying you with lyrium. Dumbass should have just asked earlier, I would have been willing to arrange things."

"I don't want your lyrium," he snaps. "Is he there now?"

"What does it matter?" _And you already have my damn lyrium, remember? Thief._

He lifts the gun a touch more. "If you can't account for his whereabouts, we don't need to be talking."

"Door's that way. Not letting you near him anymore. You're poison to him." Varric replies. "Also, I should let you know I hit a panic button the second I walked in and saw you. So." _As much as I want to get rid of you... Garrett would be heartbroken (ass)._

"I don't need to be near him. I just need him to have the same chance he gave me." He stands, then, still on Varric's car. "This isn't over. Not until he's free."

" _Please_ get off my car," Varric does not whine.

Fenris smirks a touch. "Sensitive? Maybe you should think about how you treat my friends if you want me to care how I treat your property."

"Maybe you should have cared about how _you_ treated him," Varric snaps. _Wait, same chance as he gave... the fuck?_ "Garrett is... not fine, but he's getting there. No thanks to you and Anders. Leave him alone."

"Sure. He's fine. Just like the letter said." He scowls. "I'm not stupid, dwarf. I know you're forcing him."

_Dumbass (great job Garrett)._ "Forcing him to _what_? Cut out the abusive parts of his life and stop taking drugs? Oh what a monster I am," he says in a monotone.

"You got him sober?" asks Fenris, in a tone that is so startled it forgets to be hostile.

"From blue to alcohol," Varric confirms. "Confirmed by weekly blood tests."

"And the meth? You got him to stop taking the meth?" He shakes his head. "If you can pull that off, maybe he has a chance. Still. That's all assuming you're not spinning me a load of fairy floss."

"Meth and E both," Varric says almost smugly. "More importantly, I've got him off you and Anders."

"By hooking him on you so tight he can't so much as breathe," growls Fenris. "That's not better. What makes you better than Anders?"

"Well, I'm not encouraging him to steal from his family for one," Varric says bluntly.

"No, just to give up everything he enjoys in life so you can feel like you're saving him." He shakes his head. "You want to save him, send him to rehab."

"He'd never work with rehab, which makes it nearly useless," Varric says dismissively.

"But you think he'll work with you?" Fenris scoffs. "You clearly don't know him."

"I've gotten him clean for... two months and counting so..." Varric shrugs. "About sixty seconds before a security team shows up by the way."

"I'm not afraid of your goons. Garrett's stubborn. Doing this half-assed is worse than not doing it at all."

"Let me rephrase: go the fuck away," Varric says bluntly. "Leave Garrett alone. If you need help, email me. You mean something to him, stone only knows why, so I'll help you for his sake. But leave him alone to get his life back in order."

"I won't," he says, simply. "You're right – he's better off without me. But I stood by and let that _mage_ worm his way into Garrett's life. I won't stand back and watch a second time." Finally, his piece apparently said, he jumps lightly off the car, striding toward the street entrance without so much as looking back – less impressive when you figure he probably has his implants to watch his back for him, but still.

Varric watches him go silently, then finally pings for a full security sweep once he figures the eldwa is almost gone. "So which is weirder, B? That he seems to have forgotten Garrett is one of those hated mages, or that he didn't notice I'm a dwarf?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris didn't shoot Varric, but it's clear the man can go where he pleases. Will he come between Varric and Garrett? Or will they manage to fuck things up themselves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter: discussion of divorce, hospitalization, injury.

Slowly, Garrett begins to look forward to work again. Not enough to put his heart back in his project; oddly enough, he seems to have more enthusiasm for the other things he's doing than the big project. But he gets his work done, on time, and if it's not up to his earlier caliber, well, who can blame him? Boy has a lot on his mind.

"Alright," he says finally, hitting send on the email to the board about their proposed implementation plans. "That's that. The board approving, we'll roll out the notice at the next all-company meeting." He doesn't sound triumphant; he sounds tired, despite it being only 3pm on Friday.

_Damn. He's still... I was really hoping that he'd have perked up more by now but... Well, still worth a shot._ Resting a hip on Garrett's desk, Varric tries out a smile. "Finally have some time on the weekends again. Maybe even get to go home at five for a month or so, until you have to start working late again to do corrections and fine-tuning when it goes live."

"Sure." He shrugs. "Honestly, you have it from here, you know. I'm not adding much at this point."

"Sure you are," Varric says firmly. "Your vision, your drive, your baby. Never would have happened without you and by stone, you're going to see it all the way to completion. And beyond."

"Right," he says quietly, sighing a bit. "Varric... you do know Anders was the one who taught me this stuff, right?"

"...I did not. But I don't see how that matters. Evil people and assholes often speak English and like steak. Doesn't mean I'm switching back to mandarin full time or going vegan."

"I'm just saying, it's not really my... it's _his_ vision. I'm just the privileged white boy who had the money and power to put it in place." He sighs, staring at the screen a moment. "... I like to think he'd be proud of me. If he could see. If I hadn't ruined it. Maybe he'd take it as a sign that not all rich people are bad. That some of us really do care about the little guy– we just need a little help understanding what the little guy needs."

"And here's your reminder that he lied and tricked you into stealing from your own family, almost ruining their lives to the point of death."

"...I know," Garrett says, softly, rubbing at his temples. He pushes back from the desk, standing. "I've sent the email. I'm going to go for a walk before I get back on those reports."

"Before you go, I wanted to touch back on those newly free weekends you have," Varric says quickly. "Or– would you care for some company on your walk, if you want to move around?"

He pauses, leaning against the wall behind his desk. "Alright. Shoot." _More work?_

"Was wondering if you wanted to go out Saturday and look at motorcycles," he says with a smile. "You passed your challenge and then some. So... I owe you a bike. Figure we could make a day of it."

Garrett looks at him, face drawn, then rakes a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Sure. We can do that." _No racing, no freedom to go anywhere, I bet I'd get in trouble if I just went for a joyride, and I'm damn sure he won't like my speeding, but sure, why not. I might as well get the best damn bike I can find. Order a custom job. It can replace all the hopes and dreams I used to have._

"Did you know there's a racetrack on the island?" Varric continues. "I mean, you probably do, but did you know that you can rent it out off-season? Not even that pricey, as they're just glad to make something back."

Now the mage perks up a little. "Huh. I did not." _At least I can get some practice laps in._

"How would you feel about teaching me how to race on a bike? I've done it in cars and I've ridden a motorcycle before but not much and not anything worth racing on. Old POS I had to use in Dubai years back for a few months."

Garrett smiles, then–a genuine smile, if a bit less bright than his usual. "I could manage that."

Smiling back, relieved that this worked, at least a little, Varric nods. "Good. Be nice to have someone steady I can race against. Used to race my Camero a couple times a month but stopped going. No fun with strangers and the group there..." He shrugs. "Well, they weren't all that welcoming to... outsiders." _Racist bastards. Like I'd needed to hack their rides to win._

Garrett laughs. "Oh man, you shoulda seen one time when this big bloke started giving Fen crap. I told him, next time, you let me fight him. At least it'd be a fairer fight."

"Always fun with the dark horse beats the shit out of some giant muscle bound jackass," Varric agrees. "He... stopped by day before yesterday. Wanted to wait until you were done working before I mentioned."

Garrett tenses. "I didn't signal him, Varric, I swear," he begins, nearly tripping over his own words.

"Your letter gave him the impression that he needed to come rescue you."

"Fuck," he mutters. "Fucking _asshole_ , I– Varric, I didn't mean to. I swear I didn't. I tried my best."

"Something something, not let you be taken in again like he allowed that _mage_ get his hooks in you." He snorts. "He does know you're a mage, right? And that I'm a dwarf?"

"..yeah, he knows," says Garrett quietly. "He doesn't... exactly approve of my father giving mage technology to people who weren't born with it. Or of my learning magic."

"Takes all sorts, I suppose," he says with an eyeroll. "Anyway- you mind writing another letter to send him?"

He takes a deep breath, then another. "Yeah. I can– I can do that," he whispers, mouth dry. "Was he... well? Did he seem healthy?"

"He seemed angry. And armed. Left healthy-looking boot scuffs on the hood of my car."

"No shakes? Walked okay?" Garrett sighs, closing his eyes briefly. "He had to have taken some. The way he was the night we went out, he had to have. Thank the Maker."

"Turned down my offer to supply him, but I did get a chance to tell him the proper dosage for the stuff you... got for him."

He nods. "He threatened you, I assume? Sorry."

"Just a few times," Varric says dismissively. "It's fine. And not your fault regardless."

"You said it was something I said that set him on you, so yeah, it kind of is," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maker. I'll try again. I– what did he want? I keep expecting to find him in my bedroom or the back office or something."

"He thinks I've got you in a cell or something. Was happy to hear you've, ah, quit drinking but..." He shrugs. "Didn't object to breaking up, just didn't want you to..." He frowns slightly. "I guess he was mostly trying to determine if I was another Anders, I think."

"He always did hate Anders," Garrett sighs.

"One of his more redeeming qualities," Varric says cheerfully. "Aside from the arcanaphobia."

Garrett winces. "Varric, arcanaphobia is _why_ he hates Anders. He hates magic. And my father. And dwarves. It's complicated. He was sure Anders was up to something and– I guess he was right."

"Again, steak and English. Anyway. Anything you want me to ask him if he pops up again?"

"Maker," he mutters. "Nothing he'd answer truthfully, I think." He takes a deep breath, rubbing a hand over his temples. "Thank you. For not... I'm sure you can think of a hundred awful things to do to him for trying to get to me."

"Yeah, well... getting you away from him is good for you. Killing him would be just... petty revenge," Varric mutters. "Anything you want to tell him?" he asks instead, louder, in an attempt to move along.

"I'll try in the letter but... tell him I'm sober. Miserable but sober. It's getting better. _I'm_ getting better. Maker. He won't believe you, I bet. But try. Maybe it'll help him sleep easier."

"Good. And thanks for... reacting well. I have to admit, I was on the fence about saying something," he admits.

"What did you think I'd do? I mean, you scared me half to death, but..."

Varric spreads his hands. "Ranted at me that you needed to see him? Tried to run off? Fuck, I don't know. Just... badly. I hoped you'd be fine but I worry. It's kind of my default setting to be honest."

He lowers his hand, staring at Varric in shock. "Varric..." he says slowly. "I was worried you'd decide that violated our _agreement_."

Varric winces, glancing away. _Damn. I know I decided to go with the... momentum when Gerav took 'secure and treat' that way but damn._ "I don't normally go around offing people on a whim you know."

Garrett shakes his head. "The way I behaved... I know this isn't just some whim. I've fucked up. Beyond fucked up. I don't have any right to be standing here right now. I get it. I'm trying my best to improve, but I'm– what are the odds I can do it fast enough? I've had nearly a quarter of a century to figure this shit out and I've only fucked up worse every year. I'm– I don't expect this to end well. I just want to make sure Fen gets through it okay. He deserves better than me."

"Maker's kidney stone," Varric mutters blasphemously. "Garrett, I'm not going to kill you. If you had– if you had done it knowing what it would do to your family... I'd have had a very hard choice to make. But you didn't. You weren't like B– that. You were a dupe, not a traitor, not really."

He sags against the wall a moment, covering his face with his hand. When he speaks, his voice is a bit thick, but earnest: "Thank you. For– for believing me. Thank you. I know I don't deserve it, but I really never did mean any harm."

_You may not have meant to harm your family, but you didn't seem to mind harming me. Fuck your excuses about insurance, you still used my trust to steal from me._ "There's been a lot of evil done in the world from people who didn't mean any harm. Intentions are only worth so much."

"I know," he says quietly, lowering his hand now that the urge to cry has passed. "I never claimed to be a good person. I know I'm not."

Guilt pangs at Varric, getting a wince. "Look, I don't think... you're not evil. Or even that bad. Just, well, misguided sometimes. But you do good things too you know."

"I'd hoped so," he says, with a lopsided smile. "But I know I fucked it up pretty bad. I'm just trying to make it right."

"And that by itself makes you a better man than most," Varric says firmly.

* * *

Garrett ends up picking out a bike: a top of the line motorcycle that puts Varric back a pretty penny, and that's before he orders custom parts to upgrade it himself. After all, he's never been quite happy with a stock bike, and working on it will give him something to do in his spare time that's Varric-approved.

Still, stock or not, he takes the bike out to the racetrack on Sunday, with Varric alongside. The afternoon is spent showing him the ins and outs of racing a bike, getting a feel for the track, teaching him to sense the racetrack conditions and react accordingly. Towards the end of the afternoon, he begs off teaching, wanting to push his limits for a few laps on the new bike.

A lap goes by, pushing 145km/hr. Another lap, a bit faster, pushing 200. A third lap, going a nice easy 225 km/hr, and he takes a turn a bit wider than he had before, losing traction in a bit of sand he hadn't quite seen. Varric can only watch in a heart-stopping moment as he loses control of the bike, going into a spin. Blue light slams into a Barrier around him, and he struggles to regain control, finally, wrangling the bike to the ground and skidding for a bit on his bad leg– judging by the blood on the track, shredding it fairly badly.

 

"Garrett!" Even as he's shouting, even as he's running, he's paging for a medical team. Specifically, he's paging for a fucking helicopter evac to the hospital. Overkill? Perhaps, but fuck the cost and trouble he might get in. By the time he reaches Garrett, the mage is already healing, the shield long gone as he channels mana into his leg desperately. Ripping off his shirt, leaving him in a tight undershirt that doesn't quite hide the thin, flexible body armour he's wearing under that, Varric goes to push the bike off Garrett so he can get to the leg. "Fuck, where– where are you hurt?"

"Leg," he groans, and as Varric pushes the bike off him he can see a flash of bone before flesh grows back over it. He's pale, sweating, trying not to vomit, but he slams more and more mana into his leg, flesh knitting back together and regrowing as Varric watches.

"Fuck!" Draping the shirt over the gash, Varric clamps down with one hand and fumbles into his vest with the other. "Drink this," he snaps, pressing a black vial at Garrett.

_Maker, I hope that's Blue._ He grabs the vial with a shaking hand and downs it like a shot. It is, though it's a far cry from what he's used to using. This is a real mana potion, a mixture of medical grade lyrium and stimulants in a strong glucose solution designed to slam a mage back on his feet after emptying his reserves. Varric technically has the legal right to have that, as he employes mage bodyguards, but he really shouldn't be giving it to Garrett. It helps; his stomach levels out, calming a bit, and he finds a fresh reserve to shunt right into his leg.

"I've called for a chopper to evac us," Varric says urgently. "Focus on blood loss. Just stabilize, the doctors can finish up."

He swallows back a groan. "Dad will– no hospital. I can f-fix it."

"Fuck off," Varric snaps. "Your dad will be pissed and rightly so. But he'll get over it. What the hell were you– not right now. Focus on stabilizing."

_Fuck stabilizing. Whatever I don't fix, Dad will find out about. Dammit, Anders, where are you when I need you!_ He takes a deep breath, pushing a little harder, digging deeper. Another layer of flesh forms on his leg, muscle reconnecting to itself, and he loses his battle, dry-heaving violently. _Just a bit more. Then I can–_ His vision swims, so he closes his eyes, trying not to let it distract him.

"If I see another glimmer of magic, I will sedate you," Varric says very softly in Garrett's ear. "Do you understand me, shagua?"

_Fuck. You. Fuck you!_ Almost, Garrett digs deeper, just to spite him– but he recalls being tied up, being helpless, the tone in Varric's voice. Despite himself, he drops the magic, losing control out of fear and pain. As he lets go, he slides into unconsciousness, losing the battle to stay awake just as he loses the battle to continue healing.

* * *

He's lucky, the doctors say. Healing himself like that can be very dangerous; deadly, even. The evac may have saved his life; it's lucky he passed out when he did. He still arrives at the hospital in a coma, his body too low on resources to maintain any but the most vital functions once the stimulant in the mana potion wears off.

He doesn't need a cast, as the bone isn't broken; they carefully rebuild his body's resources before opting for a second, gentler healing in lieu of skin grafts. He'll limp for a while, given the muscle he's lost, but he'll keep his leg, which he would have lost without magical healing on the scene.

He wakes three days later, in the middle of the afternoon. The doctors fuss over him for a little, giving him a clean bill of health, before letting Varric in to speak with him; by the time Varric is let in, Garrett is lucid, eyes downcast but having lifted the bed to support him in a sitting position.

"Hey," Varric says quietly, knowing enough about mages to realize that headaches are a pretty common side effect of overdoing it magically. He slips into the room, closing the door behind him, and heads for a chair to pull over to the bed. "The docs fill you in?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. He doesn't sound defiant or even apprehensive– he sounds exhausted, defeated. "The bike okay?"

Varric coughs a little. "...yes and no," he says with a wince. "Short version, you'll have a new bike once it's off back-order." _Didn't realize Mal could still cast Crushing Prison after so long in the lab_. "More worried about you."

"They said I am fine. Full recovery," he says softly, still looking at his hands in his lap.

"Good. And how about you in a non-body sort of way?" the dwarf asks as he takes a seat.

He glances up, briefly. "What?"

"Why did you pull a turn on a new track, on a new bike after not racing for months at over two hundred kph?" Varric says bluntly.

"I– it wasn't that fast, was it? I just... Wanted to let loose a little." He keeps his eyes downcast.

"Yeah it was," Varric says softly, ignoring the flare of satisfaction at being right. He'd argued with Mal about getting Garrett the new bike (the first one, though he suspects Mal would not be pleased to know there's a third already), saying that he needs _some_ kind of outlet for his emotions. "We need to figure out a more ways of letting you vent off your... restlessness. You're like a fault line just waiting to shatter and tremble."

"I'm fine," he says again. "It doesn't matter. I'm fine. Safer than most."

"I want more for you than _fine_ , damnit," Varric snaps, eyes blazing.

"What do you want?" He asks, his tone quiet, bitter. "I'm a fuck-up. I always will be."

"Then we'll figure out how to un-fuck you," Varric says flatly. "I am not giving up on you, shagua. There's too much good in you, too much talent and cleverness not to put in the work. You deserve more than you've been given."

"How?" Garrett asks, his voice a whisper.

"We've already started. Getting you cleaned up and away from certain... _influences_ that lead you to bad behavior. Stability is good too: steady work, a routine. Bikes, bikes can be fine, but it's clear that you need more outlets. Or more frequent ones. Something– you're so damn pent up you burst instead of enjoy. So we need to figure that out. How's your therapy going?"

"Uh. He told me I don't have to talk about anything I'm not comfortable with, so..."

Varric stares at Garrett. "It's been _months_ ," he protests. "Surely you've..."

"Last time I taught him about Street Fighter." He shrugs.

"Okay, new rule: actually _talk_ to your damn therapist. About your actual issues," he clarifies. "Don't rip yourself apart, but push. Uncomfortable is fine, painful... small doses." A pause. "And tell me if you're feeling raw about something."

The mage gives a bitter laugh. "Everything. But I deal."

Varric stares at Garrett, then makes a sweeping gesture at the hospital around them.

"Who the fuck cares," he says bitterly. "It'd be better–" He has the sense to cut himself off, at least, ashamed of the venom he was about to spew forth. _What is wrong with me today_? he wonders, shaking his head. "Nevermind."

"I do," Varric says quietly. "I care a lot."

There's a long moment of silence. "I thought," he begins, his voice coming out hoarse.

"It stopped being about doing a favor for Mal months ago," Varric says, voice still low, gaze fixed at something across the room. "I wouldn't have..."

"After what I did–"

Varric jerks a shoulder. "It hurt. Hurts," he corrects. "I trusted you and you used that against me. I... I don't trust easy."

"Maker," he whispers. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. "I was going to say– Maker. What is wrong with me? I don't– I don't usually feel this low. Maybe it's some kind of withdrawal. But I just... can't get too broken up about the idea I might not make it one of these days."

Varric tenses, gaze snapping down to Garrett's face. "When's your next appointment with Lelldorin?" he asks in a harsh tone– though it sounds more like tightly controlled worry rather than anger.

"Uh. We're doing monthly. Saturday after next?"

"Call him, ask for a sooner appointment. Miss work if you need to, have him come here, whatever. I'll pay extra. Tell him what you just said, tell him as much as you can," Varric says firmly. "Tell him about using, about this accident, about me giving you a mage potion even."

"Even– what about our arrangement, about what I did? About Fen? How do I even begin to unravel all that to explain it?"

Varric rubs his temple for a moment. "Leave out, ah, just say you tried to steal some lyrium from work for a friend– No. Say... Don't mention the w– the prototypes. Include whatever else you need to talk about," he finally says with a wince.

"I– you're sure?"

"Not... thrilled with the idea of anyone but the two of us knowing..." Varric allows. "But if you need to talk about it, then do it."

"I can manage. I can figure out how to talk around it, or... something."

"If you can, fine. If you can't, well, tell him what you have to aside from the prototypes."

"I don't want to fuck this up again, Varric."

"Understandable but... this is part of that. You need to talk this out with someone. And... and..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm no expect. But maybe– maybe you need to be on meds. I don't know, that's why I had you start seeing Lelldorin."

He blanches, flinching just a bit. "I'm not crazy, Varric."

"I take meds once a week but I'm not sick," Varric replies. "Not really much difference in my book."

"Lyrium's a little different than crazy pills."

"Okay, one, don't call them that," Varric says with an eye roll. "How would you feel if Carver started calling his meds 'dick pills' or something else demeaning?"

"You mean like when he said he needed to take his 'fucking puberty shots'?"

Varric snorts. "Yeah, well, you and your brother have a fair bit in common," the dwarf says with a sigh. _Shite. I should talk to Mal about that (after he calms the fuck down a bit anyway)..._ "My point is that you shouldn't make fun of it."

"Look. I'll mention... what I said. But I don't need meds. I'm not– I'm not crazy." He takes a deep breath. "I get your point. If Fen goes off his lyrium, or if Carver goes off T, yeah, that'd be bad. But I'm not.. it's not like that. I've been coping fine without them. I'm just– this is just... a rough patch. Maybe because of withdrawal or something. Or, I don't know, because I lost most of the people in my life in one fell swoop."

The skin around Varric's eyes tightens, but he lets it go, electing instead to continue to push for taking care of Garrett. "So maybe you take some meds for a while, until you get past this... rough patch."

"It's not... natural. I wouldn't be... I don't want my life to be run by pills. At least you can make intelligent decisions– meds are just... they fuck with you."

"The wrong meds sure, but if you're taking the right things in the right way, it's supposed to make it so you can think the way you're supposed to. That's the difference between medicine and drugs."

"And you're sure this isn't how I'm supposed to be thinking?"

"Course not– hence the therapist."

Garrett nods, conceding the point. "I'm sure it's fine. I– thank you."

Varric quirks a faint, almost bittersweet smile. "You're a friend." _Simple as that._

* * *

Malcolm is almost never home during the day; Leandra is free to come and go as she pleases, doing the shopping, spending time with her twin, drinking wine, going out with other housewives for brunch. When she comes in with her hands full of shopping today, however, Malcolm is not only home, he's out of his study; he sits in the front room, holding a tumbler of whiskey and staring out the window.

"Our son woke up today," he says, quietly, not looking at her. "He's still in the hospital for observation." _Do you even care, Lea? Did you visit him once? I agreed to stay away for the sake of my temper, but have you even considered visiting? Do you even recall when I told you about it?_

_It's always such a drain, being back in Kirkwall after being Abroad_. She hates the traveling itself, loathing planes and long car rides. Trains are pleasant for a day or two, but her preference by far is ships. Cruise ships mostly, though she does love her little (hundred and twenty foot) yacht for day trips. Just back last week from a jaunt to Florida that lasted eighteen days (supposedly to help her brother Gamelan make a sales trip as his assistant), she's been a whirl of outings and gossip. _Of course, having to be apart from my Gam is always a burden. Doubly so when Malcolm is in one of his damn moods. Shit, what did he say?_

"What's he up to again?" she hazards, having only caught 'son' and 'observation' amidst her musings.

"Dying, or near-abouts," he says with disgust. "He's in the _hospital_ , Leandra. Do you even care?" He hasn't called her Lea in years. He hasn't called her anything in years. To be called Leandra is almost a worse rebuke than not using her name at all.

"What?" she squawks, eyes widening in shock. "I thought– but that was _months_ ago! What happened?"

"He bought another bike. And crashed it. Again. He's been in a coma for three days."

Leandra gapes at him, honest panic and horror in her eyes. "He– what– a _coma_?" She's not a great mother, but she does love her children, as best as she can anyway. Better, it might be argued, than Malcolm did for the first decade or so of the elder twins' lives. "Which hospital, I need to– I need to see my baby," she babbles, looking around to find the purse she still has over her shoulder.

Mal sighs then, taking a sip from his drink. "Sit down, Leandra."

" _How can you expect me to sit down when my baby is dying_?!"

"You're not listening," he says firmly. "I told you he woke _up_. He's fine, Leandra. But I've spent three days wondering where I went wrong as a father while you've been.... shopping."

"Well, I didn't _know_ ," she spits at him.

"I told you. Three days ago. As soon as I knew." He takes another sip of his whiskey, his voice still perfectly even, level.

_He... did? I don't remember... ugh_. "I think I would remember that," she snaps defensively. "Unless you slipped in amidst some other drivel so I wouldn't catch it."

"I want an open marriage."

Leandra stares at him. "Open to what? What are you going on about now?"

"You don't love me anymore, Leandra. If you ever really did. I speak and it's as if you're not even in the room. I want to see other people. I'd ask for a divorce, but we both know that won't happen, for the children's sake."

She sneers at him, panic blooming in her. As well as spite... and hurt. "Absolutely not. I will not be– be made a laughing stock. I will not be cast off like some whore."

"Why not? You used me for my brains, then discarded me once you had the children you wanted– I know you're stepping out, I'm not an idiot."

She pales slightly, then rallies. "How _dare_ you!"

He takes a step, still level, seemingly calm. "Should I ask for a paternity test on the younger twins?"

She smirks then. "By all means." _He was away from town, the timing doesn't work for that_. She sniffs disdainfully. "Really, Malcolm... do at least _try_ to act according to your station. Or, well, the station you charmed your way into stealing." She seems to have recovered a bit of poise; but there was that first reaction.

"The older, then? Wouldn't that be news for Garrett to wake up to." _It's probably not true (she's too proud of herself, too smug) but I can bluff with the best of them._

_That one..._ "Malcolm... Maker, why can't you just hire a discreet escort like every other unfaithful husband?" she asks sourly.

"We don't have to tell your parents. We don't have to change our legal status. But I want out, Leandra. I've spent too many years putting my life on hold because of your selfishness. It's over. Today."

Leandra studies him carefully. "An Amell never backs away from a deal before hearing terms," she finally says, drawing family honor around her like a cloak.

"I'll draw them up digital for you. You Amells love contracts, don't you?" A bit of that rancor finally slips back into his voice.

Her eyes widen. "I will not have such a thing written down anywhere," she hisses at him. "I don't think much of your honor but I have all the respect in the world for your sense of self preservation. You won't risk a divorce."

_Damn. I was hoping she'd let me secure the terms in my app– where I can decrypt them at any point._ "You don't trust me or my servers. Of course. The rules are such: You will move to the blue room, feel free to make it your own. Hell, take the bedroom set if you like. We see other people. We tell nothing to your parents, to society: we keep things quiet, don't ask, don't tell. I appear at whatever charity balls are required to keep up appearances. I'll set up separate accounts– you can make your own if you like– and pay us each an allowance for expenditures that were previously joint. I'm sure there will be no changes for you, of course."

Leandra stares at him for a long moment, cheeks pale with anger. "I'll not be shamed. If you're caught out with someone..."

"I won't be. I suppose if I am, you'll file for divorce. If you are, however, I'll call for paternity testing."

"I would never!" she says, fire in her eyes. She actually sounds sincere in her protest. And to be fair, she is. After all, she doesn't consider what she does cheating; it's the prior commitment after all.

"Get caught? Let's hope so." He sighs, lifting his whiskey to his lips, though he pauses just before they touch. "Mercy General," he says, quietly, before taking a sip.

She studies him for a moment, off balance. _What is he– Garrett! Bastard!_ "I hope you're proud of yourself, holding that over my head to have your little bully bit here," she snaps, whirling away to flounce back out of the house. _Damn him! I need to call Gamlen and tell him– tell him what Malcolm said. The nerve of that man!_

Malcolm sags into his armchair, closing his eyes for a moment to let the pain sink in. _Lea... my Lea... where did you go? And who is this stranger wearing your face?_

* * *

The message comes over Sending, encrypted with Mal's personal signature and marked 'low priority':

**M.Hawke** : Are you still running blood tests on my boy every week?  
 **V17#5** : And he passes every week too. Why?  
 **M.Hawke** : Save some of his blood. I'll get you some of mine. I don't want to know, but I want his paternity results handy.  
 **V17#5** : Well shit.  
 **M.Hawke** : yeah. Lea and I are over, by the way. Together on paper, but the marriage is done. Don't tell the kids.  
 **V17#5** : You know that never works, right? The kids part. And besides... you think they'd care?  
 **M.Hawke** : Lea would. We have what you'd call a mutually assured destruction pact. So the kids might notice, but they can't find out from me.  
 **V17#5** : Fucking pre-nup. Alright, go ahead and send me a vial. You want me to store the results somewhere safe?  
 **M.Hawke** : Yeah. Make sure Lea can't get to it. I'm going to go polish off this bottle and head to bed.  
 **V17#5** : You should come over. We can eat proper food, bitch about women and I'll school you in Smash Brothers.

It's a full ten minutes before he replies:  
 **M.Hawke** : Sure. Be right over.  
 **V17#5** : Cool. Been getting a lot of practice with Garrett lately, so prepare for a beat-down.

Despite himself, Mal smiles at the message. _He doesn't mean it that way– but it's amusing. As much as this hurts, it feels strangely nice to be free, above and beyond the pain. Maybe I'll seek out a man for my first liaison._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sooner has Garrett gotten his bike back than he's crashed again, tearing up his leg something fierce. Malcolm is trying to get a divorce, or something like it. And Varric's in charge of all this mess somehow. Can he keep Garrett's body and soul together? What about Mal's freedom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Independence day, here's a chapter! 
> 
> Content notes: discussion of eating disorders, one ablest slur, self harm, suicidal ideation, antidepressants.

Garrett is released from the hospital on one condition: he keep _off_ his leg. Varric gives him sick leave, and he settles in bed for the day, waving off the Shirén's concern.

Varric brings him a tray of breakfast before he goes to work, but when he gets back, it's mostly untouched, and Garrett hasn't bothered about lunch. He's also, clearly, been up and about, given he's hooked up his game console, which had been in a box since Varric also has one.

_Who doesn't like French toast? Weirdo._ Shaking his head, Varric knocks on the side of the door. "Yo," he adds to alert Garrett of his presence at the door. "How was your day? Anything you don't like in a stir-fry? Mushrooms, baby corn, water chestnuts?"

"Sure, that's fine," Garrett replies, focusing on his game.

"How much do you want? Doesn't look like you had much breakfast? Something wrong with the French toast?"

"No, it was fine. I just got distracted." He shrugs. Since his coma, he's managed to– alarmingly– drop most of the weight he'd put on in the month prior. Magical healing can burn through your reserves like nothing else, and the IV nutrients after only did so much to help restore that.

"...what'da have for lunch?" Varric asks, keeping his suspicions out of his tone.

"...right, that's what I meant to do! Shit. Let me finish this level."

"Save now," Varric says quietly, voice hardening. "We need to have a discussion."

"I can't save until–" He glances up, spies Varric's face, and amends, "I can redo this part, no biggie." He hits pause, turning his attention to Varric.

"Are you anorexic?" Varric asks bluntly.

He blinks. "What? Isn't that that thing chicks get?"

"What? No. I- well, yes, they do, but it's not _just_ a thing women get. It's a... medical condition. It means you avoid eating basically," Varric explains, not exactly an expert on that matter. He'd read a few books and papers on a very wide array of psychological subjets when he first starting seeing his own therapist years ago, true, enough to give him enough of an understanding on the subject that he felt like he had some control of his sessions, but he's not even close to a professional. Varric is a firm believer in hiring experts and letting them do their jobs, but he feels better if he can at least follow along in a general sense.

"Yeah, to make you skinny. I don't want to be skinny. I'm fine."

"Okay, but... look down at yourself," Varric says dryly.

Garrett shrugs. "I'm convalescing."

"Which should mean you're eating _more_ , not _less_. Garrett, you skipped almost two full meals today because you got 'distracted.' That's not typical."

He blinks. "It's not? It's always been normal for me..."

"Generally speaking, most people eat food on the reg," Varric informs him. He frowns, then nods sharply. "I'm making you up a meal plan. You're to adhere to it strictly. If you have a problem with it, bring it up with me and we'll discuss it but you're not to leave things off or add to it on your own." _Should be able to just use my own as... wait, no. Better to start from scratch (human mage, too different than dwarf)._

"Don't you think that's a little..." He hesitates, unsure what word to slot in. _Much? Excessive? Overbearing? (Sexy?)_

"Regimented? Yeah, it can be weird at first, but I build a fair bit of diversity and flexibility into it," Varric assures Garrett. Either he missed the thrust of Garrett's absent words or he ducked out of the way. "And snacks are up to you."

Garrett stares at him a long moment, then shakes his head slowly. "Are you going to spank me if I disobey, too?" he snarks, thinking of a film he won't admit to having seen with Fen.

Varric's gaze sharpens for a few seconds, then he smirks. "Would it help?" he asks in a lazily, smug tone.

"I don't know, maybe you should try and find out." As soon as he finishes saying it, he regrets it. _Maker, I need to get laid. I shouldn't be baiting Varric like he's Fen,_ he tells himself.

"I'll keep that in mind," Varric says after a long, long moment, expression unreadable. "But I need to go start dinner." Atypically of the rich and powerful, the dwarf prefers to do his own cooking at home rather than have a chef, though Garrett knows Varric well enough to have a few ideas why.

"Sorry," Garrett says, glancing away. "I'm just a little pent up, ignore me. The meal plan thing sounds fine."

_Mood._ "I'll get it to you in a day or two," he says, pushing away from the door. He turns, hesitates, then adds, "and I wasn't offended," over his shoulder as he leaves. _And I am not sure what to do with that._

Garrett stares after him as he goes, uncertain what to do with the feelings that closing line engendered. _He's my father's best friend_ , he reminds himself. _and maybe one-time lover. Wouldn't it be... weird? A betrayal? No. Keep it together, Garrett Hawke. The last thing you need is another not-quite-boyfriend right now._

* * *

He's still brooding on the subject a couple hours later, as they pull up to Lelldorin's office. He leans on his crutch, not protesting, as he heads for the back room; he nods to the therapist before plopping onto the beanbag chair, reaching to give the man's Tibetan Mastiff a friendly ear-ruffle. "Thanks for opening a slot for me," he says casually, unsure where to begin.

Dog studies Garrett for a moment, accepting the ear ruffle. Once he's seated, the canine belly crawls closer, resting his head on Garrett's good leg and peering up at the man with soulful eyes. _More?_

"I did not have plans beyond a good book, which is glad to wait for me on a another day," the priest says kindly. "I am glad to see you are at least mostly mobile. Cherish your fortune," he adds ruefully, glancing at the ever present cane near to hand.

Garrett happily pats Dog, thinking. Part of him wants to use this as a launching-off point as he has in the past: talk about mobility, about the dog, about Lelldorin's past. Talk about anything but what's bothering him. Talk about–

_Coward_. The thought he can nearly hear in Varric's voice: gruff, but hard as steel underneath. _Tell him the truth._

"I do, sometimes. I nearly died. But sometimes lately I've been thinking maybe I should have. Maybe it'd be better if I did." He takes a deep breath. "Die, I mean."

"...I gather that this is what caused Varric to send four emails and call three times? You have a good friend in him, you know," Lelldorin says, buying time to process not just what Garrett said but that he actually shared it.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I fucked that up royally. But he's a good friend. I– I don't have many of those left. Him, and he's still hurt by what I did. My father, but he's my father, not really... I haven't heard from my twin in months, and the younger two are at boarding school. Mother and I barely talk, though she was pretty broken up when she visited me in the hospital yesterday. But that's all. Everyone else is gone, now."

"Oh? What caused that to occur? You've made mentions of a few friends over our sessions, at least three regularly." _Though you dance around names in a somewhat worrying fashion._

"That's all gone. I– I did something bad. It doesn't matter what. My friends were involved, and it... it was a betrayal, to Varric. So. When that went badly, I... he made me break up with them. All of them. I live with Varric now, for my own safety. He got me sober– I have confidentiality here, right? You can't, you won't tell anyone what I say?"

"That is correct- only matters of treason require me to break confidentiality," Lelldorin assures him. _Made me break up with them? Live with him for your own safety? What on earth...?_

Garrett nods. "I'm on– I was on drugs. Meth, E. Blue, once or twice. More than once, but not regularly. He's making me be _sober_ -sober. Totally clean."

"Ah- so your enforced stay with him is something in the vein of do-it-yourself rehab?"

He nods. "Not just drugs, though, everything. Getting my life back on track. He made me get rid of my friends, I'm not allowed to go out anywhere. I was allowed a bike as an outlet, but I crashed it my first day on the track. He's designing me a meal plan because I keep forgetting to eat. Everything."

"That seems a tad extensive. Certainly unusual. How do you feel about it?"

"I–" He hesitates, then, really thinking about it. "I hated it at first. I felt like I needed to go along with it; at the rate I'm going, it's... I've nearly died a few times recently, now. Two hospitalizations in six months, and that doesn't count the times Anders healed me. But.... It's kind of nice, having someone looking out for me. I don't know. I'm all kinds of fucked up."

"How do you feel about Varric being the one to look out for you? You could enter into a more traditional, profession rehab program after all."

"I... I don't know. Sometimes I think I... it's just, he's not a bad looking guy, and I've lost all my friends so... sometimes I wonder about... But I'm sure he's not interested." He shakes his head. "Not in a fuck-up like me."

"So you are interested in him? Sexually? Romantically?" _That is another layer of complication in an already complex situation._

"Yeah. I tell people I'm straight but I fuck a lot of dudes. I know that." He shrugs. "I used to be fucking two of them, and now I have nobody."

"I see. Have you considered that you are simply feeling the famine after such feast, so to speak? The body can become accustomed to certain levels of attention."

"That's kind of my assumption– that my hormones are on overdrive or something. It's a bad idea, I know that. He's my father's best friend. There's too much risk."

"Risk?" Lelldorin asks mildy. _I would agree, but that is perhaps not the source of the majority of it. Let's see if we can dig deeper, shall we?_

Garrett hesitates again. "well, it's just... if I were to fuck Varric... my father might turn against me. And if I turn my dad against me because of Varric, Varric might turn against me. And then I'd have nobody."

"Why would your dad turn against you for having a sexual relationship with Varric? Is he unaware of your current friendship and living arrangement?"

"Um. Yes. Also... I mean.. if Varric were a girl, it'd be wrong, wouldn't it? Going after your friend's girl or, uh, your dad's girl? So it should be wrong now, shouldn't it?"

"Your father is a married man, something that, generally speaking, revokes any claims he may or may not have on other girls. Or boys. Men. Not that such things are healthy regardless- Varric is his own person, free to make his own choices about whom he does or does not date."

"It's still not right," Garrett protests. "It puts him in a bad spot. Especially if we break up."

"That could be awkward yes, but you're all adults and fully capable of being mature about such things if you wish. It would, however, perhaps be wise to discuss the possibility before embarking on such a relationship. With both of them," he clarifies.

"Or, better plan, I don't fuck him." Garrett shrugs. "Is this really the important part?"

"You certainly aren't required," Lelldorin agrees with a chuckle. "It is simply that I would wish for you to decide that because you don't want to pursue that option, rather than because you feel pressured into not doing so."

"Sure," he says, scratching Dog's head, more than willing to let the subject drop.

Dog groans with appreciation, liking this human. Not all the humans that visit his Boss are willing to pet Dog, especially given his massive size. So he likes this one, who wasn't afraid much at all even the first time they met. He's a nice human.

Lelldorin leans forward a little, watching the mage and the canine. "Circling back around: why do you feel that a less fortuitous outcome to your crash might not have been unwarrented?"

Garrett shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know. I guess... I disappoint everyone. I'm a fuck-up. Would it be so bad if I just stopped? If I never fucked up again? I don't know."

"Do you not think you also bring positives to people's lives? We've spoken about your project at work, that seems like it will benefit hundreds of lives."

He shrugs again. "Varric can handle it. I didn't do anything he couldn't."

"And yet StoneSure has been around for over a decade now without it," the psychiatrist points out.

"It was Anders' idea. I just presented it."

"Yes, _you_ presented it. Varric has the means and ability, this Anders had the vision. But you had all of it, plus the willingness and drive to see it done. There is no good deed that only one person can accomplish. Many people have the ability and means to help for any given need. Many people have the opportunity and awareness to know of the need. And yet so very few people are willing to help. You should not think less of your efforts just because others _could_ have helped. You _did_ help. That means something, something very important."

Garrett looks away, crossing his arms. "Fine. So I did one good deed. You have no idea the magnitude of my fuck-ups. I get people hurt, bad. Almost got people killed."

"You've done one very good deed that I am aware of; can you not think of any others? And do keep in mind, it's not a matter of some cosmic ledger. You do not need, nor should you try, to balance one act against another."

"I'm just saying, pulling off one good thing and then vanishing before I can fuck it up seems like not the worst thing that ever happened. I mean, push come to shove, I did heal my leg, so I didn't bleed out– I did what I had to. But."

"But that would remove any chance of you doing _good_ things, as well as bad. As well, I doubt your death would go as unremarked or unlamented as you fear. Clearly Varric would be hurt by it. I suspect others would as well."

"Sure, sure, but like... my life hurts them too. So. Is it really that big a deal?"

Lelldorin frowns slightly, shifting in his seat. _This seems a bit more pervasive than mere melancholy brought on by serious injury._ "Have you felt this way for long?" he asks, tone curious.

"Which way? That I'm a fuck-up? Yeah, I've known that for a long time. This... I don't know. Ever since the first motorcycle crash, I keep thinking about it at odd moments. Just, randomly pops into my head, like, I fuck up a report and my brain says, hey, remember how you almost died? Is this really the reason you got a second chance, so you can fuck up again? So you can waste it?"

_I see: low self-esteem that is quickly developing into depression. Hmmm._ "Is it just when you make a mistake? Or do you find yourself thinking about it more often?"

"I don't know. I try to ignore it." He sighs. "It's weird not being at work. Harder to distract myself."

"What about when you're enjoying your hobbies?" _Racing, clubbing, sex and... ah_. "Fighting games and such?"

He shrugs. "I played something different yesterday, some indie game. I don't know. Racing is good, except for the part where I wiped out. Games... I don't know. It seems kind of pointless, doesn't it? With all this going on?"

"Not at all- games and other diversions, hobbies and the like, are very much the point. Life should be enjoyed. Some, even many, get pleasure from their work yes, but not all of us. And even those lucky ones still often enjoy relaxing with something else." _Seems to be drifting... let's poke around a bit more on this._

Over the next ten minutes or so, Lelldorin attempts to coax more information out of Garrett about his current mental state, hoping to find any patterns, as well as getting a firmer grasp on how low his mood and self-worth are at the moment. It doesn't take long to see that, more than suicidal ideation, though he is suffering from that a bit, Garrett seems to be heading deeper into depression by the week. The crux of the condition seems to be on his perceived lack of value, on his inability to succeed- to what standard, Lelldorin is still not sure about, but it seems an unreasonable one as far as he can tell. Which is not to say that Garrett has not made poor choices, simply that he fixates on them afterwards and ignores his good deeds as if they were of little worth.

"Do you have any experience in meditation? Perhaps tai-chi or yoga?"

"A little more Muey Thai than tai-chi," Garrett jokes.

"You might want to look into learning," Lelldorin replies patiently. "The focus, discipline and mindfulness will do you well. However. I think that you might also benefit from medical aid."

"I'm not crazy," he says firmly.

"I am a doctor; crazy is not a medical diagnosis, so no, you are not 'crazy.' You have depression," Lelldorin says gently.

He starts. "What? No. I don't. Depression is– I don't have that."

"Lack of interest in old hobbies, thoughts of suicide– passive or active– devaluing of your worth and actions, listlessness, general low energy, high focus on failures and mistakes, weight loss, lack of restful sleep..." Lelldorin offers a sad smile. "If you do not have a depression condition, you are mimicking one very expertly."

"...My mother has depression," he says, after a moment. "I'm not– I'm not like her."

"I do not know your mother, so I cannot say one way or another. But she isn't relevant to your diagnosis." _At least in this regard. Clearly I need to broach the subject of your parents in depth now that you've elected to trust me, at least a little._ "Regardless, there are many forms that depression can manifest as. And it is often comorbid– ah, tangled up with and in a circular cause-and-effect relationship– with other conditions. So she might be depressed and other things, things you are not."

"But depression is that thing bored housewives get – not something like this. Guys don't..."

"Roughly ten percent of men in most countries are suffering from depression. Roughly one in three will have at least a bout of depression during their lifetime- depression can be a persistent condition, or it can be caused by a traumatic event, such as the loss of a loved one. Some have both."

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. _I know what Varric will say, when I tell him. So. Let's just get this over with._ "Alright. I'll try it."

* * *

The pills don't seem to do anything.

Garrett was expecting a hell of a lot more change than he got. He was expecting them to change him, to make him into someone else – but he still feels like himself, the same old fuck-up as always. He gets more restless, as he's forced to spend a few more days in bed. He starts going to the kitchen for small snacks between meals he doens't even really want, just to burn off some energy – crutches make walking around complicated, but better than sitting around in bed. He wakes up earlier and earlier, suspecting he doesn't need so much sleep because he isn't doing enough during the day. He tries not to pester Varric, working from home, more than he has to, but damn does he want to go back to work. Maybe it'll get his mind off the weird images in it, get him something to focus on other than thoughts he doesn't want to be having.

Monday afternoon, several days after Garrett started taking the meds, Varric's implants alert him to unusual behavior. They've been going off fairly frequently, but usually for him taking a walk or heading outside to sit for a bit in the back yard. Today, however, the tracker on his ankle shows him in the kitchen, having been there for nearly fifteen minutes.

Varric hems and haws for a few more moments, then curses softly in Japanese, a favorite of his. Sounds so refined and pretty, no matter how vulgar and offensive you get. _Fuck it. I can get a cup of tea or something if he's just making a snack or whatever_. Rising, he heads for the kitchen, trying to be quiet without coming off as trying to be quiet.

Garrett's sitting on a chair backward, his back to the entrance Varric came through; whatever he's fiddling with is hidden by his body, though the tell-tale flash of blue light around his body flaring up for a few seconds is troubling, at best.

As Varric creeps closer, trying to get a better angle, he can see what's going on: Garrett has a small, sharp knife in one hand, and he's facing a bowl sitting on a second chair. The bowl has a layer of blood in it; as Varric watches, he slices his arm open, staring at it with a blank, flat expression, letting blood trickle down into the bowl.

The slice, Varric can't help but note, runs lengthwise up his arm, from wrist halfway to elbow.

Varric's brain shunts sideways, going into extreme problem solving mode, just like it had after the warehouse theft. He moves rapidly, to give Garrett the least possible time to react. His first hit, a low kick, catches Garrett in the thigh, right between the two breaks. The second is the bottom of his hand along the wrist of the hand holding the knife. The knife goes spinning across the floor, and Garrett yelps; the sight of his face, panicked, gives Varric an indication how pale he is. Blood loss, mana burn, or just shock and pain? Hard to tell.

_"What the **fuck** were you thinking?!"_ Varric roars.

One look at Varric's face and Garrett flinches away, swallowing hard. He does the only thing he can think to do – flares up blue, the cut sealing itself slowly, an inch at a time.

"Stop that," Varric snaps, twisting to grab a towel. "Use this to put pressure on it, dumbass."

"It's deep," he croaks, shivering. "I can just–"

"Leave it," Varric snaps, eyes blazing. "I see a single wisp of blue and I will deck you, do you understand me? Now put fucking pressure on that so we can drive to the damn hospital– and don't you fucking _dare_ to argue with me."

He doesn't dare argue; he puts pressure on the wound, the glow vanishing, but as his eyes fill with tears he just whispers, "Please..."

"I refuse to let you die," Varric growls, voice low and harsh. "If you won't take care of your life, then I will. Until I decide otherwise, your life is mine- and you already know how I feel about thieves, shagua, don't you? _You do not get to treat yourself this way_. Not anymore."

"I could fix it," he whispers. "No need for hospital bills."

"Fuck the bills," Varric counters. "I'll buy the whole fucking hospital if I have to. You're already pale and trembling, no more magic. Now get up, we're leaving."

"Blue," he stammers out. "I could– with some Blue–" Even as he says it, however, he's getting up, stumbling a little as he tries to keep his balance on his bad leg while holding the towel to his arm.

"What on earth possibly makes you think I would give you that shite?" Varric asks, almost marveling at the idea. As he speaks, he grabs some kitchen twine and starts binding the towel to his arm to secure it.

"Please, I– I can't go to the hospital three times in six months," he whispers, sagging against the counter to let Varric tie his arm up.

_Should have thought of that before–_ "Fine. My private doctor again then," he growls softly. "Now lean on me so we can get going. Probably need another transfusion."

"'mfine. Healed."

He is not fine; as he sags in the passenger seat, his eyes drift closed as Varric drives, his head lolling against the windowpane. _Stone cracks, shagua, you make me feel tired_. Among other things, though he's not willing to look at those yet.

The drive goes quickly, thanks to a bit of speeding and familiarity with traffic patterns. When they arrive, his doctor is unamused at the unplanned intrusion, but given his retainer, doesn't show it. Garrett swiftly finds himself with an IV in one arm and needle and thread in the other.

Garrett mumbles – to the doc? to Varric? both? – "it's not like that. I was just practicing."

The doctor snorts, not looking up as he works. "Most people do take a few attempts to get it right, though typically we try to stop them well before that." Man is the soul of discretion and very skilled, but his bedside manners are, well, caustic.

"Practicing _healing_ ," he mutters, with a glower. _I couldn't get the image of being hurt out of my head, the images of bleeding, the way bone showed through torn muscle when I hurt my leg. I thought if I practiced healing, it might go away. It might help ease my fears._

"Ah. Free lesson for you then? Best healing is prevention, so maybe work on the not cutting your damn fool self a bit." Sniffing, he glances over at Varric. "You're going to need to get the dumbass more help than stitches and soon."

"He's already seeing a therapist. And taking antidepressants now," Varric says, eyes laser-focused on Garrett's face.

"Ah. Recent that?" replies the doc, calmly.

"Yeah, just started," Garrett admits.

"Common enough side-effect regrettably enough. Should taper–"

"Why the fuck is cutting yourself a side-effect of– of fucking anything, much less antidepressants?" Varric explodes.

"Lower your damn voice, I'm not deaf yet," the doctor snaps right back. "And it's temporary. Meds are peeling back the problems, and the general stuff, apathy and lower energy, go first. Takes a bit longer before it gets to the deeper stuff like this. So he's still got the bad ideas but now he's got the get up and go to do'em. This bad... he should be in a hospice or the like, being watched."

"Doc said Varric watching was fine, given the circumstances," the mage in question mutters.

"When did he say that?" Varric asks, eyes narrowing.

"He– he warned me that– if the suicidal ideation gets worse– I was meant to tell you but, well, it didn't seem likely enough to–"

Varric is sometimes unkind. Some might even say cruel. Still, even the doctor doesn't protest when he whips out a hand and (lightly) squeezes the freshly sutured arm. Garett yelps, but doesn't fight him, nor pull away, as Varric continues: "I'd say the odds are pretty fucking good. Next time? Don't judge the odds, _tell me_. Dong ma? Understand me?"

Garrett nods, swallowing. "He said to watch me close for the next couple weeks, because with my level of suicidal ideation, it's not a given but it's likely enough to be worrying. But, Varric, I wasn't trying to–"

"I know," Varric says quietly, hand still resting on Garrett's arm, though gently, lightly. "You just don't want to trouble people, because you don't think you're worth it."

He nods, swallowing again. "I wasn't trying to... to hurt my– I wasn't trying _that_. I was just, I was doing small cuts and healing them, and I guess I got distracted, got carried away."

"Intrusive thoughts- self-harm, suicide, other destructive urges- are insidious bastards. Sneak right up on you at times," the doc says as he washes his hands. "Also, buy some damn fish. Or mice."

"It's different, healing someone verse healing yourself."

"Yes it is, mostly because one is a noble calling and the other is fucking retarded," the doctor replies. "Guess which is which?"

Garrett scowls. "My ability to self-heal saved my damn life," he points out.

"And sometimes brain damage has a benefit. By and large though, it's not a great idea. It's not even a decent idea. In fact, it's a terrible idea. You certainly shouldn't be trying to heal all the damage. Learn to stabilize, then let someone else finish things. Or just, you know, let it heal."

"I know how to stabilize," he mutters.

"Then why don't you ever just... do that?" Varric asks. "Every time, you try to heal every bit of it."

"Because I don't _like_ going to the _hospital_ , Varric!"

"I'm sure they _love_ having you visit," the doctor mumbles to himself.

"Get over it!" Varric cries out, frustrated. "Or, well, now you have more options. Including _not getting hurt so often_."

"I–" He takes a deep breath. "I know. Okay? I shouldn't have– I don't know what came over me. I just couldn't stop thinking about–"

"Intrusive thoughts, boyo, I already told you," the doctor puts in. "Most people that have them are always going to have them, but sometimes meds bring them on. Learning to recognize them so you can ignore them helps a lot, they tell me."

"Is it going to happen again?!"

"Yes," the doctor says bluntly. "Frequently I would wager. But now that you know to watch for them, you can try and actively reject them. They are your thoughts. They are not a demon's whispers, however similar they might seem at times. But they are not _healthy_ or _actionable_ thoughts. Reject them and have better ones."

"Or I'll be rejecting your head with my damn fist," Varric mumbles in mandarin.

"I didn't even realize I was doing it," Garrett adds. "I didn't mean to. I– I'll be more careful."

"I know you didn't mean to," Varric repeats once again. "I... I'm upset about you not telling me to watch out. But now I will be. And now you know a bit more about what to watch yourself for. So. We'll figure this out, alright?"

Garrett nods. "Don't tell my dad?"

Varric studies Garrett for a long moment. "Which parts?" he finally asks slowly.

"That... this. That I– that any of this happened, this afternoon."

"We need to tell him about your new meds– and the side effects. He should be watching too, just in case, when you're visiting," Varric reasons out. "Tell him that you _are_ having those kinds of thoughts but that I'm watching out."

"How about we tell him to keep an eye out because it's a common symptom? I mean, maybe if you explain..."

"I'm willing to hide that you were this level of stupid," he gestures at Garrett's arm, "but he needs to know that it's _likely_ , not just possible."

Garrett looks away. "Then you tell him. Just... just keep the fact I tried quiet. I don't know. Tell him about what I... what I said before, if you have to."

"You want to be there? I'll start it out, do the talking if you need it but... figure you should be there if you can."

Garrett nods. "Alright. I'll– alright." He pauses, then suggests, "maybe you should come to dinner with me tomorrow night?"

A flicker of complicated emotions surges briefly in response to the phrasing but Varric just nods. "Might be for the best, yeah. Just you and Mal at the moment or is the W- woman of the household back?" _Watch it Varric._

"She has tickets to the opera." He shrugs. "Dad texted this morning."

"Then sure. Sounds... fun," Varric says with a grin, though it's clear he's being sarcastic.

"Lovely. Now if family hour is over, get out of my clinic," the doctor says sourly.

* * *

It's not safe to leave Garrett alone anymore, but Varric needs to go back into the office. Since he keeps getting up and wandering around, Garrett accompanies Varric in the next morning, with strict orders to keep off the leg as much as he can (though he swears it's doing a lot better) and a pile of busywork to chew through.

It helps a little, at least with the restlessness. But he still heads to the caf for lunch, desperate to see people who aren't Varric.

He doesn't think about what it'll look like to have gone missing for a week or so, then return on a crutch with a bandaged arm. Nor about how difficult it is to manage a tray with a crutch.

"You're alive! I had begun to worry that out lord and master had cast ye into ye old merry dungeon or done an off with your heading." Oh look, Dale is here.

Garrett manages a half smile. "Something like that. Can you grab that tray for me? I just was–" He frowns, glances down at his phone, and amends, "I'm having a grilled chicken salad today, with a bowl of fruit, and I'm allowed a coffee."

"Diet?" Neets asks sympathetically. "Not that you seem to need it," she adds with a once over.

Dale snickers a little as he grabs an extra tray. "No dessert? You could probably have– ow!"

The mage makes a face. "Yeah, at the hospital they were worried about my nutrition, so I'm using this new app the boss likes to try and make sure I get enough calories. I'm sure after I get back to where I was I'll drop it, I fucking hate having this app tell me what to eat, but whatever, medicine's medicine."

"Bastard," Neets says sweetly, getting snickers from Dale. "Wait- hospital? What happened?" Her eyes narrow in on his arm. "Gary Something Hawk, did you get in a _third_ motorcycle accident?" she demands, putting her hands on her hips as she scolds him.

He raises an eyebrow. _Third_? "Yeah," he admits, a little sheepish. "Wiped out at the track. No big deal, though. Healed most of the damage myself."

"Third?" Dale echoes, getting a sheepish look from Neets.

"I... may have overheard that you had busted your leg again, hence you being out all last week, but the way you're holding your arm suggests it's fresher so..." She shrugs a little.

"You are a constant source of amazement, Neets. Like our very own Sherlock Holmes, but far less of an asshole. And not as attractive."

"If you weren't so very gay, I would be insulted," she decides. "As is... thank you?"

"The arm was a kitchen accident. I don't know if you've ever heard of a disaster bi, but that's my life to a T," Garrett jokes.

"I told you that cooking is dangerous!" Dale says with triumph before getting distracted with ordering lunches.

"Bi?" Neets asks carefully, voice lowered. "I thought you said..."

He flushes a little. "Well, it's complicated," he says, after a moment. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I still intend to marry a woman, make the Maker proud, and all that," he adds quickly. "but you two already kind of know I was seeing a... not a woman," he admits.

The redhead's eyes widen, and she glances around quickly. "Wait, you mean you really are with V– you mean the boyfriend you mentioned that you broke up with. Right. Sorry. Ditz moment," she says, flushing.

Garrett starts. "No, I'm not– trust me, I did _not_ get this job that way," he says firmly. "This is why I never talk about my love life," he grumbles.

Neets glances away. "...my dayd– my theory was more that you two fell for each other after you became his assistant," she admits, blush deepening. "Secret lovers I could see, hiring his lover unfairly... no. Fair too dedicated to his work and the company for that."

"What dressing do you want?" Dale asks, breaking into the conversation without concern.

"Ranch," Garrett replies, trying not to think too hard about what Nita's saying. "And no. There's nothing like that between us. It's... our relationship is complicated enough without fucking."

"The gossip in me is saddened by your vagueness," she informs him, smiling to show she's just teasing. "But the friend is wondering if maybe you'd like to get nachos and watch the sports games this Friday? With Dale," she adds quickly. "I know you just... Anyway, it'd be four of us, if you came. My college roommate would be there too, she doesn't work here, but the three of us met up on Fridays."

"I– I can't," he says, swallowing. "Sorry. I have dinner with the family on Fridays and well, motorcycle accident. They're rather concerned lately. Another time."

Nita winces, glancing away. "Ah. Yes, I can... Well, it's very understandable. Would you... care to join me for lunch? Dale will, regrettably, be present as well but..."

She times this well, getting an indignant, "hey!" as reward.

"I'd love to," he says, relieved. _That's allowed, isn't it? To have lunch with coworkers?_ "I'll just text the boss so he doesn't think I've vanished entirely," he jokes, leaning over to scan his badge so Dale can scan his lunch and it gets debited from his account.

Seconds after he sends his text, he gets one back: [Lunch with coworkers is fine. Will look into them to confirm more. Have fun.]

"So... have you heard the latest?" Dale asks as they settle at a table. "Water cool talk," he clarifies.

"No – what scandals have you heard?" the mage replies, leaning forward a bit with interest. _This is nice. Just talking about casual stuff, nothing life-or-death._

"Well... Joey, down in maintenance? Short cropped brown hair, left dimple and a star tattoo on his right hand? Nice guy really, even if- right, gossip. Over the weekend, when he was cleaning a server room, he found a stash, a literal _stash_ , of over a dozen pairs of silk briefs." A pause. "Worn ones."

"...how can he be sure they were-"

"Cum stains."

"No!!" gasps Garrett, laughing. "That's the worst!!"

* * *

With his wife at the opera, Malcolm has begun drinking early. It's not that he wants to be drunk when his son arrives or anything – it's just, a little lubrication will help take the edge off his anxiety, make him less likely to react badly. He knows what his mind wants: to search Garrett's face, looking for any sign that he's his son, that he takes after the Hawke side of the family and not the Amells and... someone else.

_He's my son. No matter what, he's my son_ , Mal tells himself for the fifteenth time, as he refreshes his drink. He's ordered dinner in – never one to cook much and fuck if he wants to use his wife's chef for this. He's had dim sum delivered, going for a few authentic dishes as well as some of the American-style favorites – may as well make Varric happy, since he's not certain he'll ever feel happiness again at this point.

The doorbell rings. He plasters on an easy, fake smile, and tumbler in hand, goes to answer.

Garrett leans on his crutch, a little behind Varric, an almost identical fake smile on his face. _It was just a crash. Nothing went that wrong. I'm getting help. Things are getting better._ He does feel better – maybe it's because of lunch, or maybe the meds are finally working, but he has more energy, if not more optimism. _Leave the sweater on, hide the bandages on the arm. And stop favoring it! Maker, please let this go well._

_This is going to be a clusterfuck._ Varric, knowing his friend as he does, has brought food as well. It will evidently clash a little, but who cares? Chips go with anything really, and so does chocolate cake. He's not wearing anything special, but he's made sure to load Mini B with microtranqs, ammo designed to be particularly non-damaging. Just in case. Of what he's not sure, but just in case. He also made it a point to bribe an usher at the opera to let him know if the Bitch ducks out early. That is the last stone cracked thing he needs tonight. "Hey Mal," he says easily, noting the banked emotion in the elf's eyes but not knowing the source. _Yet (can't know, right?)._ "How's life?"

"Up and down," he jokes, stepping aside. "Come in, fix yourself a drink – hello, Garrett. Food's ready so we can eat right away, sit and have drinks after."

_Got it. No drinks for me._ Garrett smiles and nods, slipping into the room on his crutch and heading for the dining room. "Cool, cool. Oh, hey, that the new dim sum place?"

"Food sounds good; we have a meeting in the morning, so we'll pass on the drinks though," Varric says deftly. "I grabbed chips and cake, just in case you tried to cook again." He follows them both in.

"Hah! No, I didn't cook – been too busy with this M&A project." Malcolm doesn't argue with Varric, but he carries his tumbler of whiskey to the table with him, setting it beside his water glass at his spot. "Hopefully this place is any good."

"Good reviews, for what that's worth– oh good, you got honeycomb beef," Varric murmurs eyes gleaming. "Go ahead and eat whatever," he adds to Garrett. "As long as it's 'plenty' of whatever."

Garrett nods. "Sure."

Mal raises an eyebrow. "Becoming an nutritionist as well, Varric?" he jokes, as they settle in

"Something like that," Varric hedges, glancing at Garret. _Guess this falls under telling Mal too..._ "Garrett's been... well, between his accidents, his self-healing and his depression, he hasn't been eating enough. You know I have that app I made to remind me to eat and such, so I just made him a personalized copy. But, you know, maybe I _should_ sell it..."

"I'm sure a lot of people could benefit from it," he comments. "They say, what, half of Americans are fat these days? Sixty percent? Something like that? Could be a big seller if you market it as a diet aid." He shakes his head, sipping his whiskey ruefully – and still not looking at Garrett, still focused on Varric. "But, enough business. How have the both of you been?"

Garrett frowns slightly, loading his plate. "Sore, but healing," he says casually. "Been tapering off the pain pills."

"Glad to be back in the office," Varric adds. "Both of us, I think. Just not quite the same as working from home. Get restless."

"I'd noticed. Been doing a lot of working from home myself this past week." Mal shrugs, sipping his whiskey, not bothering to touch the dumplings he's served himself out of politeness.

"Everything alright?" jokes Garrett. "You're not sick or something, are you? You never work from home."

"Just... looking for a change of pace," says Malcolm, swirling his tumbler.

_Mal..._ Varric frowns slightly. "Still dwelling over that... awkward bargain you had to make earlier? Mal... don't beat yourself up over it. Sure, it's been in place for years but neither party were getting any value out of it anymore. Downshifting it was the right thing to do."

_"Breaking_ the contract would be the right thing to do," he replies, frowning at his glass. "But the contract's airtight. Too many penalty clauses. You any closer to inventing that time machine?"

Garrett frowns at his food. _Contracts? They're still talking business? I expected Dad to be upset, or smother me – but it's like I'm not even here._ He doesn't mean to feel jealous, neglected. If you asked him, he'd say he wasn't, that he was relieved to be overlooked. But some part of him is still a small boy, yearning for his father's approval. To be ignored this way... it grates at him. He prods his rice, pushing it a bit with his fork, trying to convince himself to eat some of it.

"You'll be the first to... well, actually, everyone would know at the same not-time, I guess, given that Lord Emperor Varric would be common knowledge. Anyway." Catching Mal's eye, he flicks them at Garrett. "Contract sucks ass, no mistaking that, but it did yield some good, yeah? Best to focus on now. And on other things."

"True," Mal says, but he doesn't continue. He finally risks glancing at Garrett's face, relieved and conflicted about not seeing anything there he didn't expect. It's just... his son. He'd have to stare a while to find evidence of himself or Leandra in it – he's so used to this being Garrett's face, it's harder now to analyze it objectively. And yet... He returns his gaze to Varric, but casually asks, "You said the pain medication's tapering off? That's good news. I take it you're healing well, then?"

"I'm fine and dandy, no need to worry about me," says Garrett lightly, shifting a bit of rice toward a spreading puddle of sauce – and scraping his fork loudly in the doing. "How are the twins? They headed to camp this year?"

"Same as always: theater for Beth, soccer for Carver," he confirms. "I haven't heard much new. Your mother spoke to them last."

"Yeah, he's healing up, though his new meds are- Well, it's causing a bit of rough to start, though Lelldorin says it should really help in the long run," Varric says, frowning slightly. _Is this normal for them?_

Mal frowns, turning his attention back to Varric. "New meds? I thought it was just the painkillers?"

"No, there's some, uh, some lifestyle medications, as well," says Garrett, putting his fork down. "It's nothing to worry about."

Malcolm snaps his attention back to Garrett, frowning further. "What kind of medications?"

"Antidepressants," Varric says casually. "Should really help with the apathy and dark moods, though these next two weeks or so- a bit less now- will be rough. While his biochemistry adjusts, the meds can cause intrusive thoughts. Self-harm and such. So keeping a sharp eye on him for a bit."

"Self-harm," he says, his gaze on Garrett's face. "Is that why you crashed your bike? Were you trying to–"

"No," snaps Garrett. "I wasn't even on them yet."

"But you need to be on them. Are you suicidal?" He says the word matter-of-factly, as if asking for more information, but the skin around his eyes are tight, and he grips his fork more tightly.

"No!" Garrett manages to pack a load of disgust into the word. "I just– I'm just moody, that's all."

"Mal. Take a breath," Varric snaps. "Garrett is doing exactly what he should be. It took a lot of guts to talk to his therapist and ask for help."

Malcolm closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out. _Whatever Lea did or didn't do, Garrett has nothing to do with it. I shouldn't punish him for her failings, just because they're a little similar._ "I'm sorry," he says quietly, setting down his fork, eyes still closed. "The thought of losing you terrifies me. I don't mean to criticize."

Garrett gapes at his father, unsure how to respond to that. _He's... afraid of losing me. I suppose that makes sense. But..._ He has no model, no paradigm for this sort of affection. "Thanks," he says, after a moment, his voice hoarse.

"Of course," says Mal softly. "You're my son, Garrett. I love you. I don't say it often enough, but– that's the only reason I've been so angry lately. I just don't want to lose you."

Garrett bows his head, fighting tears. _I knew it, but... it's good to hear._

Varric smiles. _Finally!_ "You want to finally explain what your big project is that you've been working on, Garrett? Technically, it's still under wraps until the start of the month but..." He smirks. "Perk of being the owner and CEO."

"Yeah," says Garrett, and as he launches into the elevator pitch, there's something there Varric hasn't seen often: an eagerness, a sense of nervous energy that comes from a desire to please, to be accepted. His voice becomes more animated; he gestures with a fork, punctuating his statements. His father listens, nodding and smiling, and asks intelligent questions at the end; they chat back and forth, and by the end of the hour he's eaten a fair amount of his food.

Varric smiles, allowing the other two to do most of the talking during the meal. _This is good. This bullshit with Bitch has really shaken Mal up (would it matter? Should it?) but they seem to be finding their feet. It's good._ Pleased with life, at least for the evening, Varric leans back and just listens to his friends, his family (albeit in very strange ways).

* * *

After days of quiet, of course it's this night that the alarms wake Varric.

He'd suspected they might; there was, for a short period, a motorcycle behind the car on the way home, but it turned off, so it might have been a coincidence. When the alerts indicate tampering to the video system, he knows it's not. And he knows just where to check.

Garrett's window is open; the figure, clothed in all black with a black helmet and a small black pack on his back, sits on the desk, watching Garrett sleep. In one hand is Garrett's phone, which he seems to be idly scrolling through; his attention mostly seems to be on the sleeping form, and while there's a gun at his hip, he hasn't drawn it.

Varric hefts Bianca- the full-sized version, the one that can puncture plate steel if he sets the hydraulics to full- and aims it at the figure. "Slowly lift your hands above your head," he calls in a low voice, blood burning a frozen fury in his veins.

The figure tilts his head slightly, but lifts his hands, slowly and deliberately. As he does, Varric can- not feel. That's not quite right. His implants are inside him, but they are not his body, and he knows the difference. And yet there isn't a word in English to describe the sensation, so feel will have to do: he _feels_ something brush against his defenses, trying to get at, not his skin, but the perimeter of magic around his implants, the blending of mundane firewalls and magical defenses that stops him from being assaulted along the Fade-adjacent surface, along the part of him that was added by Dwarven smiths and yet is as much a part of him as his lungs, his kidneys.

His defenses rise to the challenge, of course, and they're state-of-the-art, but all the same, a message appears in his vision, a note from an unknown sender to his private number. The number only his close friend get, the messages he gets through an encrypted channel:

_Garrett is a light sleeper. Let's not wake him._

Varric doesn't hesitate- the sheer horror of having his implants hacked, even incompletely, triggers an immediate and very violent action. His finger applies a hair more pressure and a four inch bolt slams into the wall just over the figure's left shoulder. Powered not by line and pulleys but air pressure, it's nearly silent, just a whisper of air rustling. Sensors in the bolt trigger barbed spines to erupt once it's penetrated two inches of non-gaseous material- in this case, the wall behind the figure. Two milliseconds later, a flood of sedatives are pumped out of the spines, into insensate wood. The thud of it hitting is loud in the quiet night, but no more than Varric's voice.

"Do not do that again," he says tightly, voice a low growl. Backing up slowly, he jerks his head towards the hall. "Out."

Despite the pain of having a large bolt graze the spot where his neck meets his left shoulder, taking a chunk of skin with it in the process, the figure is silent; white teeth slam down on dark pink lips, nearly drawing more blood themselves, but he emits no noise as he gets to his feet, follows the Shirén to the hall. He holds his head high, refusing to show weakness, to show pain; he reaches up with his right hand to flick the visor down, shielding his vision from the brighter lights in the hallway. He hopes the thick leather gloves hide the tremor in his hand.

_Didn't even gasp,_ Varric notes. _Either he's on some quality combat stims (too tall/thin for most dwarves) or he's been hurt worse (a lot/often)._ Varric slowly walks backwards until they're both out of the bedroom. "Close it. Then back down the hall slow until I say stop." Thirty feet down the hall, Varric orders him to open the door there and enter, still backwards, hands still raised, into an empty guest bedroom.

Following at a short distance, he demands, "now what the fuck are you doing in his bedroom?"

"You're good, I'll give you that," he says, and his voice is like steel. He doesn't draw his gun. He doesn't need to. He knows how fast he can get it loose, and how fast he can move; he takes care to stay close to Varric, within range of a disabling blow if he so much as twitches wrong. But he takes advantage of knowing his own surprising speed and strength; he stays loose, almost as if relaxed. "Having him heal the bruises is a nice touch."

"...Fenris," Varric realizes, fighting back a sigh. "I thought you said you realized you needed to stay away from him." _What the actual fuck? How the hell did he get in here?_

"The thing about Garrett is, I might be bad for him, but I know him better than anyone in Kirkwall," Fenris continues, moving a little more forward. "I know when he's been overusing his healing magic. I don't know what you did that put him in the hospital, but I know what abuse looks like."

"What?" The word is flat, disbelieving.

"I know what you did. And so do you. I just wanted you to know what you're dying for," he says, and there's no mercy in his voice.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Varric snarls. "I've saved his life thrice over now, I would never– Fuck you for even–"

A heartbeat later, the attack comes; just as Fenris moves, stepping aside, there's a blinding pressure in his head, on his implant, the one that controls his visual overlay. His vision whites out as his ears fill with a high-pitched squeal, overwhelming; it's all he can do to hold on, to fight back, to repel the attacker by any means necessary. He drops Bianca as his hands are struck, instead focusing on using his implants to try and get a foothold on the attacker.

A second that feels like a year later, the pressure eases off, his vision clearing – but no further assault comes. A few seconds later, as the ringing in his ears fades, he hears Fenris' voice again:

"Saved his life?"

The man isn't in front of him anymore; the voice comes from behind him, from where Fenris perches on the edge of the guest bed, gun half out of the holster.

Varric stumbles, shaking his head as vision returns abruptly- upside of having the 'damage' all be tech, his eyes and ears were never hurt so there's no injury to recover from. "Yes," he grits out as he braces himself against the nearby dresser. Which neatly covers using a rogue trick to have Mini-B appear in his hand. No firing angle, as the dresser also blocks that, but he can move if and when he has to. _Fire as soon as you feel something brush your firewalls. Which are getting upgraded tomorrow (twice)._

There's another pause, another moment where he can regain his equilibrium. The voice is a growl the next time it speaks: "You're a damn liar. When? Dates and witnesses."

"Local race track for one, Saturday before last. Dumbass took a turn doing over two hundred k, hit some sand. Fucked up his leg. Again. Security might still have tapes. Hospital should certainly still have records, given that I called in an chopper evac." _Is he serious? He actually thought..._

"The hospital has the records – you took charge of him and before I can find him you put him in the hospital," he growls. "And now I find he's over-extended himself magically, and recently."

"Are you seriously blaming me because he wiped out?" Varric demands. "And yes, he's over-extended. _Someone_ got him in the habit of getting hurt and having to hide it, so now he nearly kills himself to fully heal up every time he so much as gets a scratch."

"Convenient," Fenris says, dripping disgust. "Or you're beating him and making him heal it."

"Or maybe he gets attacked by faeries in the bathroom. Do you have any _actual_ reason to think that? Or is it just that you don't like me?"

"You're _lying_. It's possible his bike wiped out, but you're lying about whatever happened today or yesterday."

"I haven't mentioned anything about yesterday," Varric noted. "Nor have you mentioned why you're still around. Garrett asked you out of his life. _Go away_."

"Still lying. Still being evasive. I'm not going to let you abuse him."

"I'm not abusing him," Varric snaps. "You can't prove an negative but I'm not. So what now?"

Fenris pulls his weapon, aiming it with trembling hands. "I can't prove it. You can't prove it. But Garrett's suffering. I'm taking my chances."

"No silencer," Varric notes, tensing himself to move. "Garrett's just down the hall a bit. Be here in less then thirty seconds I figure. Window behind you is shut and locked, you'll never get out in time. He sees me bleeding, he'll fry your ass. Or try. He's low enough thanks to his idiocy that he'd probably stroke out mid cast."

That, more than anything said so far, stills Fen's hand. He slowly eases the gun back in the holster, eyes on Varric to watch if he takes advantage of this to try and attack. "I won't wake him. He needs rest, and he doesn't need me. If I have to kill you, I'll do it silent. He'll never see me again."

"But he does need _someone_ ," Varric says quietly. "He and his dad are still feeling their way back to each other. He needs someone to keep him from hurting himself. Make sure he eats. Give him a purpose beyond fucking, drinking, stealing and racing." The 'which is all you gave him' is clear, despite being silent.

"And you're that purpose," he growls. "Do you fancy yourself the Maker? Keeping him by your side, secluded from everyone – but I suppose he's not drunk, even if he's racing and overtaxing himself." Still, Fenris doesn't reach for his gun again, studying Varric. "I saw him visit home. So I stand corrected, you're not holding him prisoner. Physically."

"Work too," Varric puts in. "Lunch with friends and everything." _And what's your purpose? Seems like all you have- had- is Garrett._

"And yet he still hurts himself."

"He's been hurt pretty badly, so yeah, the healing process is... rough," Varric counters.

"He'd be back to normal by now if it were the accident," he growls. "Don't _lie_ to me."

"I didn't mean _physically_ ," Varric clarifies. "He's been _emotionally_ hurt, which leads to him making... poor choices. Disregarding his safety and health."

"I suppose that's meant to be my fault as well? You've had complete control over him and he's still being hurt – that's not me."

"Not me either. And I don't have complete control, he's not a puppet."

"He hasn't been more than thirty feet from you since he left the hospital. You control access to him completely."

"Kind of you to imply, but I'm not the Maker." _And not to be petty, but he's been more than three hundred feet (cafe is six hundred and twenty five feet, give or take, from my office) from me, thanks._ "I'm trying my fucking best to take care of him- to make him take care of himself, but..." He swallows, looking very tired. "He doesn't make it easy."

Weirdly enough, that seems to calm him a little further. "No. He never does." Fenris shakes his head, silent for a moment before he continues: "My share of the take is in your garden shed, under the tarp. I tried to retrieve that _mage's_ , but he fled Kirkwall. Pity. I have a bullet with his name on it."

"Not a friend of his I take it?" Varric purses his lips, considering that for a few seconds. "Give me a place to make a drop- I promised Garrett that I'd make sure you get what lyrium you need to, you know, live. But I'd rather give you medical grade and have my Tier Four lyrium back."

"I'll manage without. I don't need my implants anyway."

"Yes, see, you're wrong," Varric replies politely. "And being an ass. If you don't supply your implants with the lyrium they need, they'll start breaking down in a few different ways. Including cannibalizing your fucking nervous system for raw materials."

"I'll take my chances." He looks dour, and entirely serious.

"I thought you cared about Garrett?" Varric says blandly.

"What does it matter? He'll never see me again either way. He doesn't need to know how it works out."

"Doesn't mean he won't want to. That it won't help him. Or you, for that matter. Think it over. You clearly know how to get ahold of me," he says with a tight voice. "But to backtrack a bit: that Anders guy. Seems you dislike him a much as I do. Know anything about him?"

"Little. He's a healer, with medical training. He's also an abomination. And he's fled the city."

"Abom– the _fuck_?"

"As I said." Fenris sneers. "Don't look so surprised. I'm not certain the difference between a dwarf and an abomination is as clear as you make it out to be."

"..." Varric stares. "I don't have a fucking demon clanging about in my skull, so I'm thinking I'm pretty damn different, thanks. Why the hell were you two hanging around with– did Garrett know?"

"Of course he knew. And if your mind was entirely your own, I could never have bested you. Something to think about." He gets to his feet, clearly done talking.

_He... knew? But–_ "Got a last name? Old address? Friends? For Anders."

"Never got a last name. He lived at 1612 Maple Street. Don't know his friends."

"Anything else? I'll shoot him once more and even take a pic for you if I find him first," Varric offers in a form of peace offering. Well, truce offering.

Fenris pauses as he reaches for the window. "He sometimes goes by Justice."

"Pretentious," Varric observes. _Is that the 'name' of his demon? Probably a pride demon._

Fenris snorts. "Ask your new friend. He knows more." He slides the window open smoothly.

"I have; dumbass still feels loyal to the shithead," Varric says sourly. "Remember to send me an address for the drop-off or Garrett will mope and whine."

"Easy solution – don't tell him." He shrugs.

"You want me to lie to him? Thought you were worried I was abusing him. Seems like honesty would be great for, you know, not doing that."

"You're the one keeping him away from me for his own good. You think it does him good to try and get to me?" Still, despite the open window, he doesn't exit yet.

"No, I think it would do good for him to know you can and _are_ taking care of yourself properly," Varric says simply.

"I am. I'm always fine."

"Your hand is shaking."

Fenris clenches his hand into a fist, willing the tremor to stop. "It does that."

"...stone, I see why you two get along," Varric mutters, though not low enough that Fenris can't hear. "That's _bad_. It means your implants are harvesting mana from your fucking _nervous system_."

"It will run out eventually."

"Ah. I see. Bullet would be faster, you realize. Less painful, too."

Now Fenris turns to glare at him, despite the helmet blocking most of it. "I am stronger than you know, dwarf. _You_ may enjoy being leashed, but _I_ refuse."

"Gonna kick food or air after lyrium?"

"So it's fine for Garrett to be sober but no-one else?" He sneers.

"He's a _mage_. You have _implants_. That's like saying a diabetic is a junkie for taking insulin."

"I don't _want_ them," he snarls. "Let them die. I do better without the stuff."

"It's attached to your fucking brain- if, and it's a huge if, but _if_ you lived, you're be lucky if you didn't need someone to wipe your ass for you."

"If I can't survive sober, I don't deserve to survive," he growls. "I refuse to let someone control me."

"Again, food. Unless you've learned to create fucking energy from nothing? Or at least photosynthesis like a damned plant?"

" _Food_ is plentiful. Black market Lyrium, not so much. If I let you control my supply, you have a leash to control me with. _No_. Bad enough with Garrett – I'm not letting a stranger control me."

Varric fights the urge to roll his eyes. He's _mostly_ accepted that this fuckhead is just paranoid and protective of Garrett- which is, barely, acceptable- and isn't exactly a threat. But no need to take chances like taking his gaze of him. "It's still Garrett; I'm only offering because of him. And where did you think he was getting it before anyway? The money for it at least."

"His father," Fenris deadpans.

"A stranger, unless Mal's a lot better an actor than I ever realized, given his reaction to your implied existence as Garrett's ex." He frowns. "Maybe try and be reasonable about this, just a little. Do you really want to die from the world's worst case of buyer's remorse?"

"Buyer's. _Remorse_." The disgust in Fenris' voice is palpable. "I see Garrett has told you _nothing_ of the situation."

"No, he hasn't," Varric says slowly. "If nothing else, he can hold up his loyalty as a virtue near peerless."

"Then, knowing nothing, how should your advice be reasonable? No. You may have chosen this life, but I did not, and I refuse to make the mistakes you have. I will be free, or I will die in the attempt." He turns back to the window, beginning to climb out of it.

"Don't need details to know– fuck it," Varric declares. "I have enough on my plate trying to keep my shagua alive." He stills. _My shagua? Nope. Securing the house, updating security. Just... nope._ Shaking his head, the dwarf heads to his office. _Too busy for this shit._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck it," Varric declares. "I have enough on my plate trying to keep my shagua alive." 
> 
> Garrett's not doing well -- his new meds are giving him intrusive thoughts of self-harm, ones he seems powerless not to act out. Meanwhile, Fenris is going above and beyond to ensure that Garrett is safe from the person who wants the best for him. Will this trio ever get on the same page? And will Varric ever feel safe again after that stunt Fenris pulled hacking into his implants?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content note: medical shit (needles, vomit, talk of unethical experimentation), mild to moderate.
> 
> This one's for you, De_Borah.

Garrett, still half-asleep, stumbles his way through his morning routine: toilet, throwing some gel in his hair, stumbling down to the kitchen, pouring a big bowl of cereal with milk. He's a third of the way through the bowl before he checks his phone, scowling as he sees he's meant to add an egg on toast to his breakfast. _I'll grab it in a moment_ , he decides, instead tucking into his cereal. _Too hungry to stop. Stupid mana drain._

"Mrrng," he mumbles around a mouthful as Varric enters the kitchen.

Varric looks... well, frankly, he looks like hell. Hair is messy and uncombed, face is pale and there are shadows under his eyes. Did he not sleep? The dwarf grunts softly as he shuffles over to the fridge, detouring to the coffee pot, something that is very out of routine for him. He _always_ starts cooking breakfast before he pours himself a mug. One mug of black coffee while cooking, one with sugars and cream with breakfast, then one more in a travel mug with just cream.

Garrett stares at him as he shovels food into his face. Finally, after he's seen the dwarf get coffee and take a sip, he asks, "you look— are you alright?"

Varric grunts again, then drains the rest of the coffee, hissing in pain at the scalding liquid. "Busy night. You're not allergic to dogs, right?"

"No, I like dogs," he says slowly. "Did you... sleep?"

"For about, uh, two hours maybe?" He shrugs a little, looking distracted, the slight pauses and finger twitches a sign he's multitasking to an extreme degree. And now that he's a bit more alert and looking, Garrett notices the pack around Varric's hip that likely contains a broadcaster to make it easier for Varric to link to the house computers. "You mind taking a half day today? Want to make sure the dogs know you right off."

"...Varric... what's this about?" he asks, slowly.

The dwarf stills a moment, then clears his throat. "Ah... security upgrades? We, uh, had a visitor last night. Worked out... peaceably enough but..." _Fuck. Well, this is one (terrible) way to bring it up, sure..._

Garrett sits up, now alert. "Shit. Everything okay? Anything get stolen?"

"Not that I noticed," Varric says with a wince. "It, ah, it wasn't a thief. Fuck, sorry, I'm mucking this— It was Fenris. He was worried I was... Anders two point oh."

Garrett stares at him a moment, mouth open. "Fenris," he finally breathes. "Shit. I never got you that second letter. Is he... still doing alright?" _Is he taking the lyrium?_

"..." Varric's mouth twists. "No," he finally says bluntly. "He won't take lyrium because it's a leash or something. Which will kill him, regardless of how determined he is. It's not a matter of willpower or grit or anything like that."

Garrett sinks his head into his hands, dropping his spoon. "Fuck," he says after a moment, his voice hoarse. "That's exactly what I was afraid of. Fuck, fuck. I have to go to him."

"I won't trade you for him," Varric snaps, taking a step forward. "I will _not_. He doesn't need you, he needs to pull the stick out of his ass and realize that lyrium is a medicine for him. Whatever is up with his implants, they still run on mana. If it doesn't come from lyrium, it'll get it from him."

"I can't let him die," Garrett whispers. "I won't. Varric. I _won't_."

"Then tell me how to help him," Varric demands. "Garrett, I let you get tangled up with him again and _you'll die_."

He swallows, taking a breath, then another. _How can Varric fix this? Tell him what to do — but there's no way Fenris trusts him. Dammit. I have to go to him. I can come back after — I can beg for forgiveness afterward — but right now — dammit, dammit, dammit!_ He reaches out with the last of his mana, wincing a bit as pain blossoms in his head to warn him he's dry, and throws as much cold as he can muster at Varric, intending to freeze him in place. "I'm really sorry," he says, as he stumbles to his feet, one arm protectively curling around his gut as he darts for the garage door, head down.

He doesn't even make it out of the house; the lights cut out, shutters slam down over the windows, and bolts start slamming into place. He has about ten, maybe fifteen seconds to stand there in the pitch black room before he feels a sharp sting, right in the ass, and then cold numbness spreading through him.

"Full day off it is," Varric says coldly as Garrett's head starts to swim and everything starts to fade.

* * *

When Garrett wakes, it's in Varric's home office, in the leather easy chair in the corner. His hands feel tight, cold, and a glance down reveals that's he's been given 'mage mittens' while he was out: basically, a cross between boxing gloves and those daft joined-together mittens. They're lined with silk and lead, and they lock into place over his wrists, preventing him from removing them. Bit overkill, given how drained he feels but...

"Explain."

 _Fuck. He sounds pissed. Not as pissed as after the warehouse but... damn._ "Fenris," the mage murmurs, still feeling sluggish from the combined effects of the sedative and the lack of mana. "I have to— I love him and he's dying."

Varric glares, hating how... _hurt_ that makes him feel, having Garrett pick Fenris over— over himself. "He's choosing to die out of pride. All you'd be able to do is slow it down at the cost of your own life. He needs to learn to accept help. To admit he _needs_ help."

"Maybe," he mumbles, taking a deep breath. "If I go to him, I can talk to him. Convince him. He can trust you — I know he can. If I can just show him how you've helped me, maybe... maybe he will trust you, maybe he will listen."

"...do you think he'd meet with both of us?" Varric asks after a long few minutes of silence.

"Maker. I hope so," Garrett whispers. "Varric, he..." He takes a deep breath, then, cutting off. "Is this room secure? _Really_ secure?"

"Last night, I would have said yes without a doubt. Today? Hold on." Varric opens a drawer and fiddles with something. A minute later, the windows are shuttered, the door has a plate of metal over it and the walls are humming. Varric winces a little, then nods. "There. Go ahead."

Garrett takes a deep breath, and then another, his hands trembling a bit. _Maker. Am I really about to do this? Am I really going to—_ "My life is yours," he murmurs, taking another deep breath. "Alright. What I— what I want to tell you, what I'm hopefully about to tell you, it— it's dangerous stuff. Real dangerous. Could be deadly, knowing it. Could put you in a bad spot. Is it— can I tell you anyway?"

Varric smiles, a thin, cold expression. "Sound like the status quo really. My life? Well. Danger isn't an unfamiliar thing. Go on."

Garrett nods, taking another deep breath. "I didn't exactly... I didn't exactly meet Fenris in a bar," he says slowly. "I... maybe kidnapped him. Rescued him, really. He was— There was this testing facility Anders and I broke into..."

Varric goes very still, eyes sharpening. "Names," he barks out. "Where was this?" _It can't be..._

"They had a lab off the coast of Haiti, on a little islet. I don't know much about them but all their stuff was branded Revelations, real churchy shit. They were... they were experimenting on people. The implants Fenris has are, are top grade, illegal shit. This is outside the Clans entirely."

 _Revelations... no, there's... there's no way that they— Churchy shit?_ "Why do you think it's Templar backed?" he asks carefully, trying not to react.

He shakes his head. "I don't know for sure. Just, Revelations, isn't that one of those sections of the Chant? The one that talks about the future when the Maker turns his gaze back to mankind? But I don't know why the Church would want to make... we think Fenris is meant to be an assassin. He's good at getting into places, and real good at getting people dead before they notice him."

"The workers: Chinese? Dwarven? European?"

He shakes his head again. "I don't know about the researchers, we went in after hours. Lots of paperwork in Chinese. But the thugs they send from time to time, they're various races. Skewed Chinese maybe, but some locals got roped in too. They've been trying to recapture him — that's how I got shot, he got taken and I had to get him back."

"Do you know how to get back there? The Haiti base and wherever they took him after he got captured again?" Varric asks quietly, eyes boring into Garrett's intently.

He nods. "Yeah. When they took him we stormed their base again, it's the same spot. If they haven't moved after we came back."

"They'll have moved by now but... it's damn hard to sanitize a base the size that must have been," Varric mumbles. "Well, without explosives big enough I've have heard about them anyway."

"But, look, this isn't the— what I'm trying to say is, Fenris doesn't trust you because he doesn't trust anyone but me. And he only trusts me because I saved his life."

"Same way I trust Mal," Varric says evenly, keeping his gaze steady on Garrett. "Still, I've learned to extend trust. Slowly. Carefully."

Garrett frowns for a second, then his eyes widen a little. "My father... saved your life?" he asks, slowly.

"And then some," Varric says quietly. "You ever noticed just how good my implants are? Just how much control I have, how many things I can do at once?"

He shakes his head. "You seem normal to me. From what—" He stops, then, realizing what he was about to say, and his eyes widen further.

"Yeah. I managed to get out myself, mostly, when they were... _displaying_ me as a demo. But your dad got me to safety. Helped me get my feet under me, helped me try my hand at living." He smiles grimly. "Some of my implants are almost two decades old and they're still leaps ahead of anything on the market." _Replaced some of the hardware, added some bits here and there, but most of the important implants are bascially the same. (Hardware anyway, the adaptation and refinement ability of my software is better than anything I've ever even heard of elsewhere)._

Garrett nods slowly. "But... hang on. But if you're— if you and my dad are like Fen and me... how come you're always fighting me? How come you don't want me seeing him? I would think you of all people would understand why I _have_ to go to him!"

"Because _I_ never tried to kill Mal," Varric snaps.

"Fen would never hurt me," he snaps right back. " _Never_."

"Lyrium. Racing. Bullet. He might not have _meant_ to but that doesn't make you any less dead if it works."

"And Dad never chose to risk anything for you? He was always safe as houses?"

"Course he did. Doesn't mean he should have. Newlywed man with kids and a bright future unfolding before him? He should never have risked what he did for me. That's why I vanished for a good four years after we got to Kirkwall. I kept my distance as best I could until I'd figured myself out. Started making something of myself."

Garrett is quiet for a moment, thinking that through. Finally, quietly, he says in a halting voice, "I didn't want to... Fenris offered. But... I wouldn't let him just vanish. I... I was scared he'd stop taking the lyrium, and I was right. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be what he is. I don't know. Maybe it's because you're dwarven, you had an easier time with it..."

"That probably did help a lot; being pureblood is a noticeable difference, " Varric allows. "Plus our implants are different. Mine are a bit more suited for civilian life. I lived off grifting for a few months, just long enough that I was able to start making a minimal living off the stock market. That's beyond typical for someone in my situation."

Garrett nods. "Yeah, and Fenris doesn't have an identity, not a real one, so he's gotta be careful about what jobs he takes freelancing. He— wait, what do you mean pureblood?"

"Neither did I, though I can get him one. Pureblood. Dwarven," Varric clarifies. "As opposed to eldwa—" He stares at Garrett. "He... I called him that, one of the times he sneered 'dwarf' at me and he didn't... Stone cracks, is he..?"

Garrett shrugs. "As far as any of us know, he's pure elf. Not a drop of dwarf in him. He gets nightmares."

"But that's— implants can't—" Varric goes utterly still. _Implants can't work in anyone but dwarves (and hybrids)- having an innate connection to the Fade disrupts the science behind them. But..._ "Stone and Maker both, what were they— how did they— that's..." He swallows. "Shite. I need to figure out how to... Fuck."

Garrett nods. "Now you get it," he says, very quietly. "It wasn't just about betraying his trust in me. I couldn't tell you until I was absolutely sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I could trust you." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Please, help him. Help me help him. Fen deserves so much better than what he got."

"Garrett, do you not— magitech. They cracked magitech," Varric says softly. "They must have, to get implants to work in an elf. It's... clearly not a good idea, a safe idea, at least not yet but... We need your dad in on this. There's no one else that knows magitech like him."

Garrett swallows. "And I fucked that up," he says softly. "He won't... he won't be inclined to _help_ Fen, because he thinks Fen's trying to kill me, just like you do."

"That... won't be an easy sell, no. The best thing I can think to do is for you to work on you. If you can prove you're stable. Healthy, really healthy and not just faking it, then maybe. Maybe."

Garrett nods. "Do you think we can talk to Fenris? Do you think, with the information I gave you, you could... talk him around? I want to trust you, I want you to be able to— I panicked, earlier, I didn't think you could ever convince him to trust you, but I shouldn't have doubted you. I should have offered this instead. I'm sorry."

"Yes, you should have," Varric says tightly. "I— it hurts, that I have to... practically pin you in place to make you talk to me."

Garrett bows his head. "I thought about it. But I couldn't see a way to— have you ever seen someone die of, of not having lyrium?"

A shuttered look answers Garrett before the dwarf nods curtly.

Garrett shivers. "I haven't — quite — but Fen's been bad enough that I... that I had to force-feed him lyrium to save him. I can't... I can still see him like that, if I close my eyes. I can't let him die, Varric. I just can't. I panicked. I thought— I thought, even if you never forgave me, even if I died, if I could just have one more chance to make him see reason..."

"You need to start... even beyond trusting me, you need to start realizing you can take low-cost options, before you go for the total sacrifice," Varric says gravely.

"It's been— for so long it's been, if I fuck up, Fenris will die. I can't... I can't gamble with his life that way. I— I know, I'm not arguing, I'm really not, I know I need to learn, I just..."

"It's ingrained deep," Varric observes. "But you're working on it. As shown here."

Garrett looks up at Varric, finally, looking oddly young, vulnerable. "Did I... do the right thing? Telling you?"

"I think so, yes. He needs help. Sounds like he had a poor hand dealt him. One bad enough that he's resisting the idea of being helped. You shouldn't have to handle all that by yourself."

Garrett nods, taking a deep breath. "Good. Maybe... maybe someday he'll see it that way."

"If he's the man you think he is... he will," Varric replies after a moment. _And if not... then he doesn't deserve you anyway._

* * *

That afternoon, Varric nags Garrett into accompanying him on a few errands. Two security companies— why does he have two companies?— the office and finally a K-9 training facility. They end up leaving with four dogs and a mabari pack-leader Garrett names Barkspawn. The dogs are all German shepherds, and obey Barkspawn as if he were giving the word of the Maker Himself; Barky in turn seems willing enough to listen to Varric. The following day, the four dogs are left at Varric's but Barkspawn accompanies the two men to Mal's. Varric had sent his spec ops team ahead to the Haiti site to secure it, but he wants to walk the place with Mal in person. Garrett is still hobbling and slightly burnt out, of course, so he'll be staying behind but comes with them to the airfield so they can have a little chat.

"'preciate you clearing your day for me, especially as I was more than a little vague as to why," Varric says without much preamble as he pulls onto the road.

"Of course," says Mal, still typing the last of an email from his phone. "I knew you wouldn't ask without good reason."

"Caught wind of something— of something Zuì shēnkè de qǐshì," the dwarf says grimly. Deepest Revelations, the ghost, the demon, of his past. "Base, abandoned, up near Hati, of their new face. Sent my specials to check it yesterday, but figured you'd like to come along and see it with me."

Malcolm's thumbs pause for a second; he finishes the email, hits send, and tucks the phone away entirely. "We're not bringing the boy."

"Thanks," mutters Garrett from the backseat. "Really feeling your confidence in me."

"There are things in this world you do not need to know," says Mal, his voice firm.

"Mal.... Wasn't planning for Garrett to come with us all the way to the base already, but that's more about him still being banged up. If it checks clean but it's worth coming back to when he's better, that's a different equation. He's got a good head on his shoulder, quick and clever, able to think sideways pretty well. And he doesn't think like either of us, so it's a viewpoint that we wouldn't have without him."

Mal looks at Varric sideways, frowning slightly. "Did you tell him what we're up against?"

"He didn't have to," says Garrett with a scowl. "I'm the source of this lead. A friend and I found the place — got too close while we were out partying, came back later to investigate what was out there. I know what they're doing in there."

"I doubt you do, not really. I barely understood it myself when I came across them the first time. This is — this is _dangerous_ stuff, Garrett. Stuff that could come back to hurt the kids, your mother. Stuff I don't want you to have to lose sleep over later."

"I'm not a child. I've done things, seen things, you don't even know about."

"While entirely true, that sort of thing always sounds like bragging or childish petulance," Varric advises Garrett. "Never deny being a child, or claim to be an adult. Comes off defensive. Speak and act as if it was a given and make the other person scramble to disprove you."

Garrett lifts his head. "I know how to defend myself. And I know how terrible the world can be. You're not protecting me by leaving me home, you're just keeping information I might someday need out of my hands. If you're going to entrust me with any of your company secrets, you're going to have to let me in on things like this — Varric suggested their research may be related to ours, and that's vital information to have. So you may as well begin teaching me now. Who knows what might happen in the future?"

Malcolm looks ahead at the road to hide a smile. "I suppose you have a point," he allows. "I just hate to rush things. But, what's done is done — if you already know what we're up against I suppose we can speak freely in front of you."

"Based off of some of the stuff that Garrett noticed and a few other hints... Mal, I think this stuff might be magitek," Varric says quietly. "it would explain why my implant seem to want more lyrium would then their specs would indicate."

"No," says Mal, after only a second to think.

Malcolm has never told Varric the secret of magitek. He's told no-one but the Tranquil his family employ that do the crucial steps of the process, the pieces that allow spellwork to be inscribed later into the circuit boards. He's working on arrangements of transistors that will duplicate spell effects naturally, but for now, he's making do with a particular magnetic arrangement that captures spells cast into it, meaning that after the Tranquil make the blank boards, mages have to "bake" them. That much Varric knows; how the Tranquil do their job, how Mal came up with it, and most importantly, the theories that let it all work? No. Not even Leandra knows. Malcolm knows, and he mentions there's an emergency protocol if he were slain, but there's enough chance that he's bluffing, that the theory behind the technology would be lost entirely, to keep him from being assassinated.

"No," he says again. "There's no benefit to dwarves in using magitek. You're not going to get better results than you would from tech alone."

"Not even being powered by the Fade direct? And... and not all the test subjects were dwarven. At least one was elven. Pureblood elf," Varric says gravely.

Mal is quiet for a long moment. Finally, he rubs at his temples, sighing. "I should look."

"We could..." He swallows, throat tight. "You could take a look at mine." Allowing someone access to his implants, digital or physical, is somewhat terrifying to consider, especially after Fenris's little attack. Spooked at being taken down that way, Varric had gotten a booster cyber-block designed to be worn as two armbands, ones that rest on his upper arms. They're purely security programs and extra CPU, as the dwarf has no intention of being hacked so easily again.

Mal turns sharply to look at him. "You're sure? It's not— I meant at their notes, at any artifacts we can recover. I don't— it's exceedingly unlikely they've used the same technique. I would know." _If nothing else, my Silent Partner has seen Varric — I asked him to take a peek, to see if there's anything dangerous to his health. He didn't seem to think they were anything special. But then, would he have said so? He's so strange at times..._

"Yeah, I figured you mean that. But. But it could be... useful. Besides, not like I wouldn't maybe want to know about it." He shrugs a little, trying to make it seem unimportant.

"Haven't you seen them?" asks Garrett, blinking. "If it were me, I'd want to see what there is to see."

"Varric's implants are... unusual, in a number of ways," says Malcolm slowly. "One of them is the damage they've caused to his body. It's not something he likes for people to see, and I've respected his privacy over the years. Helped him find a doctor he could trust to make sure they weren't still causing damage, but I didn't pry."

"Oh," says Garrett, blinking. _Huh. I've never seen him shirtless, but it's not like we've been to the pool or anything._

"There's also the part where my main node is nestled _between_ the hemispheres of my brain." Which is absurd— most nodes are located at the base of the brainstem, and even then, it's just a thin cord touching with most of the implant outside the blood-brain barrier. "But yes, I think it's time and maybe past time to have someone take a look at them. A real look, not just an external scan. But that's not today."

"I don't... really know a lot about implants," he says slowly. "Other than there's magic ones and tech ones, and they take lyrium to sustain either way. Can you walk me through the basics? If I know what to look for I might pick up on clues like this again..."

"There are _not_ magic ones. There are ones that mimic magical effects using science, but implants are science-based. They've tried to internalize staves, but, uh, it hasn't been very successful." _Either less than a one hundredth degree of effectiveness (per a standard staff) or they cause rapid onset (four to six weeks to full metastization) cancer_. "So that's the first thing. Two, you had two kinds, historically. Though maybe three now. Runes on quartz, computer chips and possibly magitek. The first two are pure science."

"How can runes be pure science?" he asks, frowning.

"We like to think of science as a process, the iterative process of discovering information about the world, but it's not. There's an energy to it, almost like mana, that is generated when those sorts of processes are carried out, which can be harnessed to bring about effects on the world. It's mostly a lost art, except for the Stones — some say, it's the native energy of our material world, as opposed to the native energy of the Fade, which is mana. It's likely what powers Templar abilities, and our bodies can convert Lyrium into it, which is why implants require Lyrium despite not being magical." Mal rakes a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I'll get off the soapbox now."

"This is the sort of thing can start Clan Wars that last for hundreds of years, but there is _some_ rational to the theory that science and magic are the same thing, just opposites. Like heat and cold or light and dark. Or maybe oppositely charged magnetic fields— can't have both at the same location, the stronger will just override the weaker at cost to its own strength." Varric chuckles softly. "Just don't ever talk about that sort of thing with a dwarf or templar. They _hate_ the implication that science isn't realty and magic the aberration, that they're just... different languages that can express the same concepts or something."

 _There's more truth to that than you'd think, old friend_ , Mal thinks, but doesn't say aloud. _I hate that I can't tell you, but it's too dangerous. If I die, you'll be the one to find out the truth — that you were right all along, or near enough._ He smiles a little, glancing out the window.

"Couldn't you test that somehow?" asks Garrett, frowning. "I would think we could devise an experiment of some kind — wait, no, it can't be true. Because if they were unable to coexist, then there'd be no magitek."

"Really? What about Haitian Creole? French, Spanish... and handful of other languages blended into one. And... you're assuming that magitek is just science and magic. What if Mal discovered neutrons to make the electrons and protons play nice? Or if he figured out a perfect— or near perfect— insulator, to keep the hot and cold where they need to be?" He grins a little. "Or hell, what if magitek isn't either? What if it's _just_ a third system entirely, one that can do things from both pools?"

Malcolm chuckles. "Been giving this a lot of thought, have you?"

"Wait do... do _you_ not know how it works either?" Garrett asks Varric, incredulous.

"Hell no," Varric says cheerfully. "If he tells me, I can't figure it out, now can I?"

"Again, good luck," Mal laughs. "You'll never figure it out. If anyone could, you might, but you won't. I'm confident."

"You... you plan on telling _someone_ though, right?" Garrett asks his father, worried.

"I have contingency plans in the event of my death," he says, casually. "Other than that, no."

"...what about Marian?" he asks, clearly meaning, _What about me?_

"I would hope your sister chooses her own path rather than basing her life around me."

Garrett gapes at the back of his father's head, stunned into silence. "No real need for anyone else to know," Varric points out. "And having only Mal know focuses any, ah, unethical attention on him."

"How is someone supposed to succeed you if they don't have the training they need to take over?"

Mal rubs at his temple. "I don't— I don't expect either of you, any of the four of you, to be my quote-unquote successor. I want you to be healthy and happy and find your own way, the same way I did. It's your mother who assumes one of you will run the company someday — and to do that, you don't have to be a visionary or know my secrets, you just have to keep doing the process as I've installed it."

Varric glances at Garrett in the rearview. "Heavy thought?"

He shakes his head. "This is— I mean—" He is interrupted by his phone: a catchy jingle, barely recognizable as the intro to a Queen song. "Shit. Sorry. That's Mom, I can— I'll call her back."

"No, no, it's fine," says Mal quickly. "By all means, I'm sure she's worried."

"We still have twenty until we arrive, go for it."

When Garrett answers the phone, he's instantly hit with a flood. "Garrett! Oh it's so good to hear from you! I hope you aren't busy?" No pause. "So, I know we normally have lunch next week but I _need_ your help for tommorow. An old friend is coming into town tomorrow morning and she's bringing her daughter."

"...And you want me to arrange a hit?" jokes Garrett. "How am I involved?"

"Oh Garrett, you and your jokes. I need you to attend of course! Maribell has never been to Kirkwall and it would be _unforgivable_ of me to make her be there the whole afternoon without a peer to socialize with! It's nothing fancy, just lunch and a walk of the grounds. Perhaps tea in the garden after. Wear a nice set of slacks and that blue shirt I got you, the one with the silver buttons? You'll look _darling_."

"... I am sorry, are you setting me up on a _blind date_?" asks Garrett in disbelief.

Mal coughs twice, hiding a smile behind his fist. _Classic Leandra..._

"You have to work whatever day that is," Varric says instantly, almost protectively.

Speaking at the same time, his mother lets loose a titter of laughter. "Of course not! As if I would ever do something so, so, _déclassé_. I am simply being a good host and friend. And if you get along with sweet little Maribell..? Well. Such fortune."

"Wait, did you say tomorrow? Sorry, I have work — can't make it," he says, and to his credit he makes it sound mostly natural.

Voice turning a little sour, Leandra replies, "dear, it's not real work, it's just an internship. And for your father's dwarf no less. Tell him you're taking the day off for important family matters. Now, I want you here for breakfast to catch up and let me make sure you're presentable."

"What did you call him?" Garrett's voice is low and menacing

A short pause answers his demand first. "Garrett Tobias Amell! You will not take that tone with me, understood?"

"No, Mother, I don't understand. If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work." And then Garrett does the unthinkable: he hangs up on his mother.

Varric whistles softly.

"I can't officially condone hanging up on your mother," begins Mal.

"Fuck her," Garrett growls.

 _Not anymore, evidently_ , Varric thinks wryly. "So... what sparked that?"

"She's trying to hook me up with some girl, some friend of hers' daughter," sighs Garrett.

 _And that caused you to hang up on her?_ "That common?"

"Not really," begins Garrett

"It's not _un_ common," says Malcolm, at the same time, before he concedes with a chuckle.

"She's usually better about respecting 'no'," adds Garrett, to which Mal adds nothing. He doesn't have anything to add that Garrett would find helpful, he figures.

Varric chuckles as well. "Well, that clears things up."

Garrett groans. "She started talking shit about my job," he adds.

 _That's... that doesn't jibe with what you said, exactly_. "I see," he replies neutrally. "You got it handled?"

"Yeah. I'm just going to ignore her."

"Garrett...."

"What? She can't force me to attend her little tea party. I told her I'm busy. What more does she want from me?"

"I mean... Look, I won't claim to be her biggest... or even mediumest fan, but she is your mother. Not the worst mother either. Don't let her make you do anything you really don't want to, but don't burn bridges you'll regret. Just my two cents."

Garrett sighs, leaning back into his seat. "Yeah. I know. Dammit. I just— she's so— sometimes my mother really gets under my skin. But that's what family's for, right?"

"Eh," Varric offers noncommittally. _Not really able to speak on family (had a good mother, while I had her)_. "Anyway. We were talking about implants..." Despite his shift back to lecturing, he can't help but wonder why this latest bullshit by Bitch bothered him so much— or who the 'him' in Garrett's challenge had been.

* * *

The island is abandoned, as they had been told. There is no way to tell what was on the computers a mage has expertly melted into so much slag, and there's no trace of papers in the desk, nothing left in the dumpsters but ash and charcoal. They find cages, small ones, with traces of human urine and feces — living test subjects, at least for a time. They find the remains of a crematorium, ash and bone they are sure is human, but there's no way to be sure who or even how many died here. They find evidence of a high speed internet connection, suggesting this is a satellite office of some kind — usually you want them isolated unless they are making routine reports back to some central authority. There are observation chambers, offices, medical facilities; no proof of what happened, but evidence something did.

They take what they can find and return. It's all they really can do, now.

* * *

While they were exploring, Garrett was having second thoughts. And so the next day, at lunchtime, a limo comes around to work to pick him up, take him home — an actual limo, not the Bentley and driver his father prefers.

He intends to stay two hours, no longer. it's after five when he returns to Varric's via his father's Bentley, driven by his driver. It's not hard to see why when he stumbles in, holding a half drained bottle of fine scotch he has clearly been chugging.

Varric studies the younger man for just a moment when they met in the main hall. Then, without a word, he grabs him by the back of the neck and starts hauling him towards the bathroom.

Garrett actually squawks, the bottle dropping to the floor and rolling away as he is dragged. "The hell??!"

Still silent, Varric ignores the question. Entering the bathroom, he shoves Garrett into the bath tub, taking care that he guides him down so that his leg is unhurt. That done, he uses his implants to activate all three showerheads without a drop of heated water.

Now Garrett _howls_ , shouting and struggling for a few moments before slumping to his hands and knees, coughing, head bowed as he shivers, his long hair — free of the snapped hair tie — dripping rivers of water down his clothed back.

Varric lets him howl himself out, then another minute or so, before upping the temperature to lukewarm. "Say what you did wrong."

"You said no alcohol, sir," he mutters.

"Then why are you drunk?"

"Because I had to deal with my mother, sir."

"Explain."

"I've met this girl once and my mother's hearing wedding bells. So is her mother. And the girl's not even objectionable." He shudders. "It's like a noose around my neck. I can see the end coming. So I got drunk. Sir."

Varric stiffens. "So that's it? She's not 'objectionable' so you're just going to fold? Give up everything else and marry her?"

"I'm gonna _try_. But damn it all, she's sweet and attractive, what can I do? Mother will go on about my duty to the family and..."

"So that's it? Some 'sweet and attractive' bait gets laid out and you just can't help but swallow it?"

"And I can't find an excuse good enough to justify to let down my entire family, fuck up whatever business dealings my mother's got her eye on, and maybe get disinherited? Yeah." He swallows, shaking his head. "Before I could at least find some justification, some reason to say no. But I don't have any. I can't even honestly say I have a boyfriend because I don't, not anymore. I—" He cuts off in something like a sob, though it might be choking on some water. He's still got his head bowed, after all.

"How about... 'twenty-two is too early for me to consider marriage.' Or 'I want to finish my degree before dating seriously.' Or even just 'no thanks, I want to marry for love.' Garrett, you don't need a reason to not marry someone," Varric says gently, reaching out to rub his back slowly.

"Mother was married at twenty," he points out. "And it's best not to bring up school."

"Okay, fair point. Look... I... it's not my place maybe but... your parents' marriage? Maybe not the best example to emulate?" Varric offers with a wince.

"Maker. I don't have a choice — I'm an Amell or I'm not. That's all."

"The hell kind of reasoning is that? You're an Amell as long as you want to be."

"An Amell does his duty — puts the family before himself," he mumbles, shivering a bit.

Varic increases the temperature slowly. "...or you could not," Varric suggests. "Your dad clearly doesn't think you need to prostate yourself before— or on— the altar of the family's glory."

"He's not an Amell," mutters Garrett. "I— I thought— I just thought I had more time. I thought there'd be time to be with Fenris, to make sure he was happy." _I sent that letter — I hope it changes his mind. I hope he doesn't— I hope he chooses to—_ The tears pick up in earnest, enough that he can't tell himself it's the water any longer. _I ruined everything._

" _Fuck the Amells_ ," Varric snarls, the hand that had been stroking Garrett's back twisting around to grab his chin and yank his gaze up to Varric's.

Garrett blinks back tears, looking up at him, struggling to find something to say — or the will to say it around the lump in his throat.

"Do not lie to me, understand?" He lets that sit a moment, then asks, "do you want to be married? Not for them, not for family or your fucking role in life— _do you want to get married for yourself?_ "

"Someday," he whispers. "But not right now."

"Then don't, shagua," Varric orders, voice unyielding and faintly pleased.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." His voice is soft and even, his eyes closing in something like relief.

"Did getting drunk actually help?"

"Yes, sir. Temporarily."

" _Actually_ help, not just distract you and cause new problems." _Ass._

"No, sir," he mumbles, recognizing the right answer even if he would rather argue.

Varric shakes Garrett's chin gently. "No lies, and yes-man bullshit counts."

"It helped. I didn't let my dismay show or take it out on some poor girl who hasn't done anything wrong. But it doesn't fix it."

Varric rubs his forehead tiredly. "That's— That's a dangerous crutch to start using. One that can backfire badly."

"I know, sir. Just... after the third mimosa it didn't seem to matter. I— sorry, sir."

A soft sigh. "Well... I'll get you a change of clothing. Get an actual shower, get dressed and head to the kitchen. We'll brainstorm then." _And we need to talk about that ex of yours, too._

"Yes, sir," he says, dropping his head again.

Fifteen minutes later, he makes his way out of the bathroom, wearing a clean pair of jeans and no top; he drops into a chair, towel over one shoulder. He glances at the clock out of habit: nearby five-thirty, not that he knows Varric has plans for them in an hour.

"Dressed-dressed," Varric says after glancing up and then sharply away. "We're going out."

"Polo or button-down?" he asks quietly, his voice subdued as he gets to his feet.

"Casual. Something you can blend and move in."

"Got it." He manages a small, crooked smile, and then he — and his wonderful eight-pack — are headed back out to his room to get changed.

He doesn't ask, not even as they get into the car — now dressed in black jeans and a dark grey polo. His hair's combed and tied back — it's starting to get long and shaggy enough to get in his face, but he seems more than comfortable with a low ponytail, just barely big enough to justify the hair tie. Likely he's had it longer before he cuts it. Combined with his goatee, it gives him a rugged charm that manages to stay just this side of 'pretty'.

Varric had studied him for just a little longer than might be considered polite before nodding curtly and telling him to follow. The first half of the drive goes in silence. The second... "Fenris finally got back to me. I have two months supply of medical grade to drop off. And you need to talk to each other."

He sits up, just a little. "Alright," he says, after a moment, swallowing hard. "What am I saying?"

"...what do you _want_ to say to him?"

"Maker," he whispers, leaning back into the passenger seat and closing his eyes. "I miss him. I never wanted to leave him alone like that. I.. Maker. I want to shove that lyrium down his throat and ask forgiveness later. I don't want him to die," he adds, his voice cracking. He takes a deep breath, then another. "But I said all that in my letters, and it didn't help. Well. Unless it did — maybe I convinced him to take it."

"Well, he's agreed to met, so... Seems like _something_ helped. I think mostly he just wants to check in on. See it for himself." A long pause. "Which is not to say he realizes you're going to be here tonight."

Garrett groans. "You need to tell him. He doesn't do well with surprises."

Varric shrugs a little. "Then he should have keep his messages open."

"Dammit," groans Garrett, leaning his head back a bit.

It doesn't matter; as Varric turns onto the street with the park, his messenger lights up with three words from Fenris' throwaway messenger account: _Can't make it._

Two seconds later, another message: _Sorry._

 _For the love of stone...._ "Hold on," he mutters to Garrett as he pulls over.

 **V43$%** : Why not? Where are you?  
**Fen27234** : Sick

As if that wasn't worrying enough, he adds, a moment later,

 **Fen27234** : Take care of Garrett. He's worth more than you know.  
**V43$%** : For fucks sake. Give me an address.

"What's going on," asks Garrett, his voice anxious. "Varric?"

"Fenris is being stubbornly daft again," Varric mutters.

"I'll call him?" Garrett offers, digging for his phone.

"...fine," Varric allows begrudgingly.

Garrett dials with two quick swipes of his thumb, pressing the phone to his ear, closing his eyes. "Please," he whispers, mostly to himself. "Please. Maker, please. I know I'm just a mage but if you're real, if you're out there, please, let him pick up."

His eyes snap open a moment later. "Fen."

Through his implants, Varric can hear Fenris loud and clear: the weakness to his voice, the rasp in his throat, the way his breath catches. "Garrett. Piss off."

"No," says Garrett quietly. "Where are you?"

'Keep him talking,' Varric mouths, eyes going vague. Tracking a message over an encrypted system is one thing, but tracking a phone call? Very possible.

"Forget about me," says Fenris, and there's a brief intake of air, as if someone tensing against pain — something Varric has seen Fenris refuse to react to.

"No way, man." Garrett takes a deep breath. _Keep him talking so he can trace the call. Got it_. "Fen, I've been — I've been having a real hard time without you, man. I don't know if I can— I don't know how long I can keep on like this."

"Bull," grumbles Fenris, swallowing hard. "You're... better off... without me."

"I'm not. I'm really, really not. I need you, Fen. So you can't die on me, okay?"

Varric gets a location — his software is state of the art, better than what that Kirkwall PD use. The call's not coming from far away: the other side of the park, where there's a bridge that's been turned into a bit of a homeless encampment. A good place to go to ground, really; he'd blend in, white hair or no.

Flashing a thumbs up at Garrett, he pulls out into the road again. Once they're close, he parks once again and gestures at the mage. 'This way.'

Garrett, meanwhile, is still cajoling him on the phone. "Fen. Please. Tell me where you are. Don't do this to me." He closes his door quietly, trying not to spook his friend over the phone.

As they get close, they spy the mostly-empty encampment. There's a woman with a shopping cart who hurries away after taking one look at the pair; the only other figure is Fen, slumped against the concrete wall next to a bucket of vomit. He doesn't look good; his hands are shaking more violently. He doesn't look up as they approach, his eyes staring vacantly into the distance, one hand reassuringly on his bucket, the other cradling the phone. "Just go, Garrett. I'll be fine."

Garrett pulls away from Varric, running toward Fenris as he hangs up. "No, you won't," he stammers, kneeling beside him. "Fen?"

He reaches out a hand to Fenris' shoulder, but the elf flinches back, pulling away. There's a tingle in the air, almost a hum; then, as Garrett's hand brushes against Fenris' shoulder, his pinkie touching bare skin just beside the collar of his shirt, there's a crackle, ending in a loud snap and a bright flash of blue light. Varric can taste a metallic tang with lyrium aftertaste on his tongue, but the light doesn't blind him, and while everything seems blue for an instant, it snaps back into focus a moment later. Can Fenris suck lyrium out of a mage with his implants? If so, he's not doing it on purpose; after the initial reaction, the grunt of pain from Fenris, the reaction vanishes.

Garrett runs a thumb over Fen's cheek gently, swallowing. "Fen, can you hear me? Are you alright?"

"Hunch him over," Varric orders briskly, reaching into his vest to pull out a syringe, watching warily for any hint that the elf is going to repeat that little trick. "Keep him still."

"Who did you— the dwarf?" Fenris grunts, swallowing hard.

"Yeah," whispers Garrett, moving to bend Fenris over his knee. "Sorry," he adds, as the man bites back a scream.

Twisting Fenris's head to the side, the dwarf slips a needle into the base of his skull, angling upwards slightly "Not the best way to do this but the quickest. Get a good grip, he's going to... react."

Garrett grabs firmly as Fenris lets out a shriek, twitching and convulsing as his nervous system goes into overdrive. Fenris twists his head as the convulsions settle, dry-retching into the bucket. Garrett gently lets go, hating to hurt him any longer than he has to.

"...damn," Varric says, eying Fenris. "How low were you?" he mutters, getting out another needle, this one built into a box. "Hold him again, I need to draw blood to see how bad this is."

"Fuck you," whispers Fenris, hot tears dripping down his face from the pain and shame of being manhandled.

"He took the last of his previous supply the day before our warehouse job," says Garrett quietly. "I don't think— I don't think he's taken any since then." _Maker, Fenris... you're dying. You would have **died**._

"Fucking moron," Varric mutters sourly as he draws some blood. The testing device starts to click softly as it works. "Alright, help him sit. I have food in the trunk, in the dark canvas bag, go ahead and grab the whole thing." Food, bottled water, vitamins, a change of clothing, a thermal blanket, and two months of medical grade lyrium.

Garrett nods, leaning Fenris up against the wall. "I'll be right back," he says, and he dares to plant a kiss on Fenris's cheek before he jogs off toward the car.

"You shouldn't have brought him," says Fenris in a low groan after Garrett leaves.

"He needs closure and such," Varric says with a shrug. "Besides, figured he'd have better luck trying to help you."

"Why do you care, Dwarf?" he grunts.

"Because Garrett cares."

Fenris closes his eyes, then, hearing Garrett's footsteps hurrying back. "You love him. Good. He deserves to be loved."

"I- what?" Varric blurts out, entirely flat-footed. _I— what did he— why would— I don't (do I? What?)— Damned elf is out of his mind._ "Give him some water to sip, then open a meal bar for him," Varric snaps at Garrett.

"Yes, sir," he says, kneeling again and opening a bottle of water, holding it to Fenris' lips. Over the next few minutes, he gets some water and food into Fenris, trying to touch him as little as possible. "Sorry," he says again, as Fenris winces back from his hand brushing his cheek. "I— Fen, we need to talk," he says, seeing Fenris' eyes drift closed.

"About?"

Garrett gives a bitter laugh. "You can't keep doing this, Fen. You need help. More help than I can give."

"I see no one else."

"I told Varric where I met you."

Now his eyes snap open, and he scowls. "How could you—" he begins, but the attempt at shouting causes a coughing fit.

"Good thing he did— always did wonder what Revelations got up to after I broke out," Varric says blandly. "See they opted to shift from oversight and networking to a far more directly aggressive model."

Fenris glares at him. "So you're associated with all this? You're part of it?"

"...did I only _think_ I said 'broke out?' Was that part not out loud?"

"He's like you, Fen. He was a victim too," says Garrett, tone soothing.

"Yeah? Not a volunteer?"

Varric smiles coldly. "Not even close. Didn't even realize I was in it until I was twelve and they decided that my... free range growth had reach its limit."

Despite himself, Fenris leans forward a little, eager. "So you were groomed from childhood?"

"Maybe, after a fashion. I was accepted into a... specialist program. Program itself is legit, but they were fishing out candidates for their little horror show. Good but not prestigious Clan got me in, good testing and such got me further, then..." He jerks a shoulder. "Why? What about you?"

Fenris looks away. "I don't remember."

"Don't remember...? How you were entered into the program? The program itself? The implantation process?"

"I don't _remember_ ," he growls. "The first thing I recall is waking up in a lab in pain while _dwarves_ and _mages_ prodded at me like so much meat."

Varric winces. "I... Can see why you have some resentment there," he admits. "There were humans and elves involved, near as I can tell, but it came from China true enough."

Fenris closes his eyes as his anger deserts him, his body too starved to sustain it. "I didn't volunteer," he says quietly. "I don't remember how I got in, but I know in my bones I never wanted this. And now I have a lyrium leash just like every fool Dwarf, to be jerked around by."

"Everyone has something," says Garrett, quietly.

"Wasn't my chosen life plan either. Making it work as best I can," Varric adds. _Which is pretty damn good if I do say so myself_. "How's your pain doing?"

"Subsiding. I am always in pain."

"Try not to touch him," says Garrett. "When he's like this, he can't stand even light touches." _This bad, his clothing must be torture._

 _Touching? To that extent?_ "Full body?" Varric asks slowly.

"Yes."

"Bit unusual that... must be something wrong with the feedback relay," Varric mutters, pulling things out of his vest. Man came prepared... "Well, here, take these then," he says, shaking his head. _Diagnose root problems later, treat now_. "Basic non-opiate painkillers, extra strength, mild muscle relaxant, vitamins and something to settle your stomach after not eating for what looks like days."

"I don't need your—"

"Take it," Garrett snaps, voice firm but eyes worried. "After putting me through this, just take the damn meds."

"And then what?" Fenris asks, in a low rumble.

"Then you grow the fuck up and take your lyrium." Garrett takes a deep breath, then another. "You dying is unacceptable. If you get taken, I'll find you. If you get trapped, I'll free you. If Varric tries to blackmail you, I'll blackmail him back. Can't you trust me? Have I ever let you down before?"

Fenris looks away, shoulders slumping. He's quiet for a moment before he says, "He's a dwarf."

"And I'm a mage. So what? I swear on my life, he's not with them, Fen. Let us help. Let _me_ help." Garrett gives a rueful smile, shakes his head. "If nothing else, so we can fuck them up for what they did to you."

Fenris bows his head, then, staring at his shaking hands, the pills Varric's dumped into them. Then, all at once, he swallows them down, letting Garrett help him with the water.

"It was my brother," Varric says quietly. "The one that put me in the program. He sold me, both to get their backing and to remove his more talented, more popular younger brother. So I get— I get the distrust. I get the hate. And I want them to bleed and hurt just as much as you do."

Garrett smiles, briefly, sadly. _I told you he had good reason to be mistrustful. Maker._

"They don't work right," says Fen quietly. "My implants, I mean. There's one— there's one that's meant to fry machines, but it only zaps people. I use it as a weapon but I think it's damaging my, my nerves. Everything hurts, all the time. Less so when I have lyrium. But I hate the stuff. I hate being dependent on it, and I hate the way it makes me feel."

"...elf. Of course. Dwarves are resistant to lyrium's side effects but..." Varric frowns. "Injection," he says after a moment. "Doing what I just did, injecting it directly into the main implant... it won't cover everything, an implant system like ours is far too distributed to have intake sites for every implant— hell, some are smaller than a grain of rice— but if you do a weekly injection to all the main ones, you can probably cut your ingested lyrium to a tenth of the dose. Which from what Garrett has implied and the vials we found in your flat, is about three-quarters what you were taking when you had Garrett to nag you. So slightly milder highs but your body won't be decaying while you're still living in it, starting with the nervous system."

"Am I still an elf?" he asks, looking at Garrett instead of at Varric, though the question is clearly directed at the dwarf. "I don't dream unless I'm low on lyrium, and even then, only rare nightmares."

"Does it matter to you, being an elf?" Not waiting for an answer, Varric continues, "then yes, you are."

Fenris is quiet a moment, thinking this over. Finally, he shakes his head. "I'm too damn stubborn to die. Alright. You win. I'll try the injections."

 _There's your adopted dwarven side_ , Varric notes approvingly. "Good. I have a scanner at my house, we can figure out where your injection sites are. And you could use a warm bed, hot shower and some good meals. Just for a few days, while you get back on your feet," he adds, not wanting to triggering Fenris's pride. "If you want to pay me back for it, write out any security holes you can find."

"Your security's good," he says, begrudgingly. "My implants are better — mostly — I didn't mean to trip the silent alarm."

"I'm going to have to carry you," says Garrett quietly. "It will hurt, I'm sorry."

Fenris waves a hand dismissively. "Everything hurts."

"Is flesh to flesh worse or the same as flesh to cloth?" A pause. "Or have you compared dwarf to mage? It might be the magic..."

"Right now, cloth hurts. Mostly, Garrett's skin is worse than non-mage skin, but I can usually stand clothing. I've never touched a dwarf. And the abomination made my skin crawl on top of the pain."

"Don't call him that," snaps Garrett.

 _Yeah, just gonna let that go (for now)._ "Right. Then Garrett, you get his stuff and the kit, then hurry ahead to open the door. If mage is worse, then dwarf should be better. Even if only a little."

Fenris gives a short, silent nod, and Garrett springs into action. As he lets the dwarf lift him, Fenris rests his head against the man's chest out of sheer exhaustion. _Trusting him can't be worse than dying_ , he tells himself, trying to believe it. _If I'm taken captive, Garrett will save me. I have to trust that._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is safe now, no longer dying for lack of the lyrium his body needs to power his implants. How can Garrett ever show his gratitude to Varric?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes: Cops, discussion of drugs.

When all's said and done, when Fenris is settled into Garrett's bed, his stomach full and his implants sated, Garrett finds himself at a loss. He slips back out of his room, letting the elf sleep; he spies Varric on the sofa, clearly interacting with his implants rather than use the computer he's left (locked) on the coffee table. Not wanting to interrupt, Garrett moves to kneel in front of him on the floor, hands folded in his lap, watching Varric, waiting for the dwarf to acknowledge him.

Varric notices him almost instantly, given how high he's set the security around the house. He's got a begrudging respect for Fenris, and a fair bit of sympathy for him, but trust? Yeah, not so much. Barkspawn sleeps in the hall just outside the bedrooms, with one of the regular dogs in Varric's room as backup; the rest of the house is on high alert, ready and waiting for the warrior to try something.

Varric pauses to let Garrett broach the conversation he clearly wants. Then waits longer out of curiosity when the man kneels. And then longer out of... something _else_. Finally, he hums softly. "Speak."

"I wanted to thank you, sir," says Garrett, quietly, head still bowed. "You saved Fen's life. And... you saved mine. I've been nothing but difficult, but you keep trying. Pushing me to become a better person. So thank you. I— I will try to do better. If there's anything I can do for you, anything you... anything you desire of me, I will do it."

He doesn't really expect Varric to take him up on the offer. Some part of his mind, however, expects— craves?— Varric to test him, to ask him for something beyond the pale. Some part of him expects to be put to use, expects to get a chance to show off his skill with his tongue. And yet, it's still an offer he makes.

Varric begins to smile at the start of Garrett's speech. As much as he enjoys challenges, enjoys projects, finding solutions and working out plans, it's still nice to be recognized as doing the work. That end, the offer, the clear implications and offering... That triggers a whole slew of emotions. Disgust comes fast, coating his guts and greasing the way for shame, hurt and anger. But it is desire, it is possessiveness, it is _triumph_ , that comes first.

"I want you to do better," Varric snaps harshly. "No more slipping, understood?" He struggles a moment, the loathsome ball of emotions in his stomach warring with both reason and affection. "You're doing better than I feared. But I want more." A beat, a wince. "From you. Of you. I want better behavior and performance," he tries to correct.

"Anything," Garrett says quietly. "I understand, now. I trust you. My life is yours." He looks up at Varric then, his eyes burning with intense and complex emotions. Something like love; something like trust; something like fear, and something like desire, like need. "Give me an order," he whispers. "Ask for what you want."

"Garrett, what are you—" Varric swallows thickly. "What is this about?"

"This is about you, and me," he says quietly. "I want to— I want to show you my appreciation. I want to thank you somehow. I'll do better— I promise I will— but that's not a thank you, that's..."

"Garrett..." Varric takes a slow breath. "You're not a whore. I don't want to be _paid_ for helping you."

"I'm offering," he says, still gazing up at Varric intently. "Whatever you like. My body is yours. No strings attached."

 _Stone cracks, he is offering what—_ "No," Varric says hoarsely, closing his eyes, though not before Garrett can see the molten heat in them. "I don't— I can't. Not with— I don't do that."

"Then what _do_ you do? Feet? Pain? I— name it, I'll tell you if it's too far." He keeps his gaze on Varric's face, looking for excitement or flinching. "I'm not a woman, but I can pretend if that helps?"

"Sex," Varric says shortly. "I can't stand—" _Damnit, damnit, damnit_. "I don't like being... _touched_."

"Then I won't touch you," Garret replies. "I'll let you touch me. You can tie me up if it helps, so I can't— so I can't startle you." _Was he raped?_ wonders Garrett, but he knows better than to ask. _Something's wrong, very wrong. Dammit, this is meant to be no strings; stop falling for him!_

"Garrett... I'm your boss and—" _Your father's best friend._ Despite his protests, he's not moving. He hasn't told Garrett to leave or shut up.

"No strings," he repeats. "It doesn't have to change anything. We're— we're friends, or something like."

Varric's mouth opens, then closes. He takes a deep breath and then settles into slow, shallow breathing. His hands tap at his thighs, almost as if he were typing but not quite— and it's not like he has such a clear tell when he's using his implants, so it's doubly strange. This continues for a while, the dwarf seemingly lost in thought, almost meditating.

Garrett's face falls, as he watches Varric. _He's distressed_ , he notes, seeing the fingers, speaking the language of his body without really comprehending why. _Trying to sort out what to say to me, how to tell me... what? No. Probably how to say no without—_ "You don't want me," he says quietly, bowing his head as he rises slightly. "I understand. Forget I said anything."

"Sit," Varric grates out, eyes still closed. "Didn't give you permission to leave."

Garrett rests back on his heels, folding his hands in his lap once more. Waiting.

Varric takes a slow breath, then one more. "...not tonight," he finally says. "I— I don't— don't change well. Not for— for things like this. I need—" A ragged breath, forced to slow and even out at the end. "I need to think on this," he says quietly. "Write down your lists. Expectations and— and degree of outness by social group. Stone cracks." _Mal. How the fuck would I explain..._

"I don't understand," he says quietly. "You're talking about... a contract? Like for... like for a submissive?"

"...not that formal no. Just— I like to have things settled. I don't..." Varric's mouth twists and he sighs. "I've tried this before. S&M. Kink play. It was... hollow. I dropped out of the scene years ago."

"I was never... but I've seen things. Not a lot, but some. I can— I wouldn't mind. If you wanted something formal like that. If you wanted to draw up some lists and... all that, and I could scratch out anything I won't do. I don't know what you're into, what you _want_. But it... it might not be a bad idea. Put down the diet stuff, the, all of it. Living with you."

Varric opens his eyes, expression a touch bemused. "We... could, if you want," he says slowly. "But I was just thinking white, grey and black lists. Safewords. Living arrangements and... degree of outness with various groups, to make sure we're both in agreement on things. The diet thing is separate, that's medical."

"Isn't that usually in this sort of contract? The submissive will eat regularly and so on?" He shakes his head. "If we're going to do something more than once, something long-term, it will have to be secret. My family..."

Varric winces. "I... yeah," he says quietly. "That's... that's a big stumbling block. Your mother would... and fuck if I know how to even start telling Mal 'hey buddy, guess who I decided to get back into the BDSM scene with?'"

"Maribell," whispers Garrett, with a shudder. "I— No. You've told me to say no, and I will. That will have to be enough for Mother. But— I won't tell her. Or Father. We'll tell nobody."

 _You told me to—_ "Garrett, do you— do you _want_ to marry her?" he demands. "Do you want to _try_?"

"No," he says quickly, then amends. "Not now. I— the thought of marrying her terrifies me. She's a nice girl. Clever. Charming. I could see myself marrying her someday. But marriage, marriage to a woman, feels like The End. Someday I'll have to be the person Mother wants, Garrett Amell, upstanding citizen, but I'm not ready yet. I want Fen, I want my bikes, I want _you_."

Varric frowns a little, more thoughtful than displeased. "Garrett... do you, ah, _enjoy_ being with females? Sexually."

"Yes," he admits. "Whenever Isabela's in town, it's the highlight of my month. But it's different with her. There's no strings. We're just two ships in the night, taking what we can get and then splitting up to have our own lives. Marriage is... entirely another matter."

 _Maybe Isabela's become a lot more masculine since I saw her? Been years (it's possible I suppose)._ "I see. Have you ever— Any idea what Leandra's views on gay or bisexuals are?"

His expression darkens, and he drops his gaze. "Not great. Why do you think I keep insisting I'm straight?"

"Great," Varric mutters, slipping into Mandarin for a few more choice words. "Mal at least is fine with it. Homosexuality and kink both. At least..." He winces again. "Sticking point there is _who_ , more than what."

Garrett is quiet for a moment, swallowing a few times before he manages to put together the words: "Were you and him...?"

"No," Varric says quietly. "He was already with Leandra when we met, remember? And he's been faithful to her, as best I know and my best is a lot of knowing, since before he married her."

Garrett nods. "I won't tell him," he repeats. "And neither will you. It's none of his business anyway."

The dwarf glances away, clearly disagreeing. "Garrett... that's a hell of a secret to be keeping from him. And, fuck, he's my best friend, he's surely notice such a big change in my behavior anyway."

Garrett glances up, swallowing again. "Do you think we can tell him?" he asks quietly.

"Sure, we can _tell_ him," Varric says weakly.

Garrett takes a deep breath, lets it out. "This doesn't have to be— this is why I offered something small, no strings attached. We don't have to make it something big. I've never really... _dated_ anyway. If it's just a sex thing..."

"Then it's hollow," Varric says quietly. "Can you honestly say you enjoy a random hook more than... times with Fenris?" _And that's another thing to be settled._

"I'm not _dating_ Fenris either. Nor Anders, nor Bela. I can care about someone without dating them."

Varric looks down at the floor, shaking his head. "Are you serious? Garrett, just because you don't name something, doesn't change what it is."

"We're not... there's no expectations," he says softly. "Whatever we feel, whatever we do, we don't expect each other to be there tomorrow. Every hour I get to spend with him is a gift, a one-time thing. We're not monogamous, we're not making promises. We're not _dating_."

"So you have a relationship with low expectations— that's still a relationship," Varric says, almost smiling. "I would expect— require— more."

"You and I have a relationship," he says softly. "We're not _dating_. But we have... something. Fen and I have something as well, a different something. Can we craft something that we don't need to tell my father about? Fen and I don't go on dates, we don't plan when we're going to fuck, it just... happens. So it's not like I need to introduce him to my parents."

Varric studies Garrett for a long moment. "We— we could. But I'd never be... I don't hide what I'm proud of. Not from those I trust."

Garrett gives a small nod. "You can.. I don't mind if you're ashamed of me," he whispers. "if it helps."

"No," Varric growls. "I will not be ashamed of you or us and it would not help."

"I don't need much," he says quietly. "I just— I can't tell my father. And I want... Maker. I want you. I want to _please_ you. I don't care about the rest of it — I want to make you moan, I want you to cum in my mouth," he whispers.

Varric's jaw clenches. "No," he orders sharply. "If you want this, we're doing it right. We're doing it together and we're doing it right. Are you willing to actually try for once?"

"Anything," he promises. "I just don't want.. I don't want to come between you and my father. I don't want you to suffer because of me."

"Suffering is part of life. I'm tough, I'll survive." Varric takes another slow breath. "Enough for tonight. Go get some sleep, a shower, whatever. You're still a little buzzed and recovering atop it. Let me know if your mother contacts you again. Or Maribell does."

"Yes, sir," he says, getting to his feet. "Thank you, sir." Then he is gone, heading for the shower; he turns on the water, hot as it'll go, and slumps against the wall, letting his tears mingle with the spray. _Stupid. You made things weird. Maker. Why does anyone put up with me? Fen, Anders, now Varric — I'm not what any of them wanted or needed. Maker._ He knows he'll do his best in the morning. He'll do whatever Varric wants, he'll pick up the fight with his mother, he'll try to find some way to navigate this impossible situation. But for now, he needs the spray to wash away the shame and regret, to wipe clean the last of the fear and pain. _Fenris... and Varric._

Varric sits on the sofa for a long moment, then slowly rises to his feet. He pauses then, worried, and checks the house's surveillance system. _Showering. Good. Maybe._ Unable to stop himself, he checks the filtration report: _No blood. Okay. No unknowns. Alright. Just showering (naked)._ Rubbing his face, he slowly makes his way towards the bedrooms, then hesitates briefly before redirecting to this office. _Need to work. Need to run my brain (departmental status reports? No, too predicitable) down. Stone cracks, what am I doing? Why didn't I just let him down gentle (lonely) and avoid (don't want to) all this? This is foolishness. But... (but I want him)._

"When did this get so damned complicated?"

* * *

"You are going to be the hero of the working stiffs," Nita says in a low voice as she leans over next to Garrett, the pair looking at his computer. "This is brilliant. I had wondered what we were doing, coming up with those groupings for pay scale, excluding all of the execs. A little worried too, if I'm honest. I was not expecting this." Varric is off at a meeting with a new tire vendor, a big one that is hopefully going to take over outfitting the bulk of the transport fleet in north-western Africa, which means that Garrett's office slash Varric's waiting room is nice and quiet for the pair to start putting the finishing touches on the profit sharing program.

"I know," he gushes. "This could change everything. The whole motivation: the better you work, the better the company does, the more you get paid. It's brilliant, it's basic, and it's almost unheard of in Kirkwall."

"Well, I'm glad we don't have stockholders. I'm also impressed that bossman managed to push this past the Board. I mean, they can't really stop him but they could have made this a lot harder." She glances at Garrett with a grin. "Don't suppose those rumors about _you_ being part of a few Board meetings lately might have anything to do with that..?"

"Hah! I can only hope," he jokes. "I probably made things worse, but I gave it my best."

"Oh I'm sure that you put that charming tongue of yours to good use," she replies with a laugh. Then reddens. "Umm. You're very smooth. And charming."

"Oh my," he chuckles, leaning a little closer. "Someone sure sounds like they've been listening to the rumors about me," he sing-songs.

Nita reddens a little more, but doesn't back away. "I enjoy a good rumor," she says, tongue darting out to wet her lips just a little. "But I never trust them. A first-hand account is much more... valuable."

He meets her eyes, keeps them, daringly. "Is it," he says in a low purr. _I wonder if Varric would be opposed to a quickie in the supply closet? Maker do I need to get laid._

Before Nita can reply, the elevator dings, the two-second warning chime that allows the assistant to always be looking up when someone arrives. The redhead scowls, but straightens up, putting a professional distance between them both.

A pleasant smile snaps back onto Garrett's face, and he shifts his chair a little forward to better conceal his lap, hands moving to the keyboard — always seem busy. Good thing too, as when the doors open, they reveal a pretty strawberry blond in Kirkwall guard uniform. And behind him, Captain Vallen. Well, fuck. "Garrett Amell. I need you to come with me to answer some questions."

His hands move rapidly: four keystrokes, then a quick burst of typing, as his smile conceals his blind panic. "Good to see you again, Captain Vallen— though I believe I corrected you on the matter of my name last time we spoke?" he offers. An instant message window pops up in the corner of his screen; no time to bother setting anything to urgent or encrypting, he just sends to Varric (without glancing at the screen) "SOS. Pigs on my 12" before closing the window with another keyboard command.

"Garrett Hawke, of course," Vallen says stiffly. "My apologies. Garrett Hawke. I need you to come with me to answer some questions."

"As you can see, I'm at work at the moment, let me just check my calendar," he says smoothly, reaching for the mouse.

"Now, Mister Hawke. This is a very serious matter," Vallen says curtly. "And please move away from the desk."

"Is he under arrest?" Nita asks with wide eyes, trying to distract her long enough for Garrett to finish whatever it is he's doing. _Amell? Wait, does she mean— oh, you daft cunt, of course he is! Look at him, he looks like a younger Malcolm Hawke!_

Garrett clicks twice, turning on the webcam and recording just in time to catch the words 'under arrest' before getting to his feet. "I'm sorry — did you say what this is about? I had thought the investigation into my unfortunate biking accident was closed?" _If I have to, I'll go with them and hit the panic button on my anklet in the car._

"Accident," Vallen says flatly, the word scornful. "That's one way to put it, sure. But no, this is related to a new matter. Right now you're a 'person of interest' to an ongoing case."

"Oh, I see," he says brightly, reaching into his pocket. "That sounds like something my lawyer would want to hear about, one moment."

"Hands where I can see them," Captain Vallen barks, tensing, her hand dropping to her service pistol. "Calling your lawyer is entirely your right, though that means that this shifts from answering questions to a formal interview," she continues smoothly.

Garrett lifts his hands into plain view, still smiling broadly. "I'm sorry; I'm not at all certain how I'm to call anyone with my hands in plain sight? Nita, could you be a dear and dip your hand into my back pocket— or was it the front one? Or did I leave the phone in the desk, could you check the desk first?"

Vallen's eyes narrow. "Your lawyer can be contacted at the precinct," she begins.

"Oh it's not a problem; what's his name, I can call him wirelessly," Nita says brightly.

"Oh thank you, that'd be great," Garrett says, nodding. _She has implants? She's part dwarven?_ "Um, let's see, what was his name... was it... Alex? Or... maybe it was Andy? Andrew? His last name was a kind of fish, I believe; do you have Google?"

"Your computer does," Nita chirps helpfully.

Taking a step forward, Vallen fights back the urge to growl. "Enough fooling around," she says, painfully swallowing back the edge her temper wants to put there. "Slowly pull out your phone, two fingers."

"Sure thing, cap," he chirps, reaching slowly with his left hand toward his pocket. "I'm going to reach into my front pocket right now, with two fingers," he adds slowly. "Do you need me to step forward so you can see better?"

"za'Frane," Vallen says in a low voice, prompting the uniformed guard to move around to flank the desk. "Proceed Am— Hawk."

 _Oh good, at least when I'm arrested my boss will have the other guy's name._ Garrett nods. "Right, reaching now." He slowly reaches into his front pocket, making a show of fishing around with his index finger and thumb, other fingers free. "Alright, that's not the right pocket. I'm going to reach into my back pocket now," he adds, slowly removing his hand and going for the back one.

There's no ding, no warning, before the elevator doors whisper open. "Captain Vallen! What a wonderful surprise!" Varric says cheerfully, ignoring the way she whirls, gun half out of her holster. "The fuck you doing in my building?" he adds just as cheerfully.

 _Oh thank the Maker_ , thinks Garrett in relief. "Boss!"

"Thedas," Vallen growls. "This has nothing to do with you, I'm here to—"

"My. Building. My. Employee. So get fucked if you think it doesn't have anything to do with me," the dwarf growls. Silently, Nita drifts to the side, placing herself where she can shove Garrett behind the desk, out of the line of fire.

"Garrett _Hawke_ is needed for questioning," Vallen says after chewing her words for a half moment. "For matters unrelated to your company."

"I'll just call... Andy, pretty sure that was his name?— I'll give him a call and we'll set up some time on your calendar," he chirps. "Captain Vallen and— I didn't catch your rank, Mr za'Frane?"

The guard twitches, just a little, before Garrett even addresses him. "Officer will do," the guard says warily.

"Today," Vallen says firmly. "Your fancy lawyer can clear his schedule. Or, if he can't, a public defendant can be provided should you wish for representation."

"I'm sure he can," he chirps happily. "Thank you so much for your time, officers, and I'll be in touch shortly."

"I'll wait," the Captain deadpans.

Varric gives her a cold smile. "Actually, I just checked: doesn't seem like you have a warrant. How did you get up to my office, by the way?"

Vallen stares at him blandly. "Politely."

Garrett tilts his head, frowning. "Oooh, I'm sorry, I'm afraid that's a big no-no: without an appointment, I'm not supposed to let you up here. But if you want to wait downstairs in the lobby I can have some refreshments sent around?"

 _Well, someone's getting fired (or at least a hell of a poor performance review) when I find out who let you up the lift._ "I see. Well, this is a private area— restricted even, just as Mister Hawk says. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Coffee and donuts, I think," Varric adds with a grin and a nod to Garrett. _No sugar, no cream and just plain donuts of course. Assholes._

"Right-o, bossman!" the mage replies gaily. "I'll have those sent right over. If I may?" he adds, gesturing to the desk as he glances at Vallen.

Vallen takes a deep breath. "Fine," she bites off. "za'Frane, we're leaving. For now." With a nod, the officer hurries over to step into the elevator with Vallen. "This isn't over," she adds as the doors close.

"Well that was bracing," Nita murmurs softly, forcing herself to relax.

"Tell me about it," sighs Garrett. "Nita, would you mind grabbing them a pot from the caf? The oldest one, because fuck them."

Nita snickers a little, then glances at Varric. He nods curtly, eyes locked on Garrett. Taking that as her cue to get the fuck out, she heads for the locked stairs. Out of Varric's view, she mouths, 'talk to you later' before vanishing.

"Are you alright?" Varric demands the instant the door shuts completely.

Garrett doesn't answer, not until he reaches over the desk to shut off the webcam. "Yes, sir," he says, shoulders finally slumping in relief. "They said I'm a person of interest— I recorded the whole thing just in case."

"Good thinking," Varric replies in a softer tone, not mentioning the cameras that record the room constantly. "Take a seat. Take a few breaths. Then explain. Alright?"

The mage nods again, sinking into the chair, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "Fuck if I expected this," he whispers. "I didn't— nothing I've done since the bike accident should be on their radar. Fuck." He shakes his head, taking another deep breath. "They just appeared suddenly, the lift was the only warning I got. Nita was here to go over the rollout plans. Vallen came in hot for me, demanding that I answer questions and calling me Amell. Fuck her, I didn't want Nita knowing— whatever. What's done is done. I played dumb; she admitted I was a person of interest so I lawyered up. We were playing 'which pocket's the phone in' when you arrived. I was sure she'd have me in the back of her squad car before you'd get my message."

"You did good," Varric says after a moment. "You did real good— I wouldn't have noticed she was here if you hadn't... You did good. She didn't give any sort of hint as to what..?"

"Just that it's a new case, not the bike thing, and she sure as hell wanted me isolated and unlawyered. She called it a 'very serious matter'; I think she was hoping I'd self-incriminate accidentally and she could arrest me."

"Not a bad trick," Varric admits, scowling. "Alright. Call your lawyer, I'll call your dad and warn him so she doesn't get to him first."

"Yes, sir," he says, nodding. "And... thank you. I— I'm sure you must have rushed out of that meeting to get here so fast. I'll do my best to contain the damage from that."

"We were winding up," Varric says, wincing a little. Most wouldn't have caught it but Garrett knows Varric better than most. "It'll work out."

"Sorry," he says again. "I'd hate to impact everyone's bonus?" he offers, joking, though his tone is more subdued than usual.

"Hey," Varric says softly, deftly suspending surveillance in the room for a few minutes. Moving over to Garrett, he reaches out to wrap an arm around him. "Take a few breaths. You're okay."

Garrett shivers, taking another deep breath. "Sorry. She reached— she reached for her gun. All I could think was I can't get shot in front of Nita, she'd never— sorry." Another deep breath. "I know it's unlikely she'd have—"

"Nita?" Varric asks, distracted, though he doesn't let go of Garrett.

"Juanita. The girl I was with." He frowns a bit.

"Ah. Didn't recognize the nickname," Varric explains. _Right, she's going by Juanita at the moment_. "You... okay? About the gun thing? Do— would you want to, I don't know, go to a firing range to, ah, confront that?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think— well, unless you're offering to threaten me, I don't think it'd help. No. It's just been a— it's just been a long week."

Varric considers that for a long moment, than shakes his head. Almost immediately after, however he hums thoughtfully. "Maybe not with a _gun_ gun, but after Fenris is able to move around properly, maybe we can go paintballing or something. Laser tag."

"Maybe. For fun, if nothing else." He takes another deep breath, then nods. "I'd better call Arthur."

"Yeah. Take a few minutes first. Just... sit and breathe. I've locked the elevator, she can't get back up here if she wanted to."

"Thanks," he says again, and he leans toward Varric, closing his eyes as he rests his head against the older man's side. "Did you... think about my offer?" he asks quietly. "I— I meant it. If it's too much trouble, that's fine, but..."

Varric laughs softly. "I've had to create a diversion filter in my implant, to keep me focused at work. So yes. Constantly. But I need more time. I'm sorry."

Garrett smiles, and it's warm, for all it's crooked. "Alright, then. Good to know."

* * *

By the time Garrett makes it downtown, Mal's beat him there, even counting the detour to pick up Arthur along the way. He stays in the car to stop himself from pacing; he slips forth when he sees Garrett get out of the Uber. "What's this about? No, sorry, nevermind — are you alright?"

Garrett manages a small smile. "Yeah. I'm fine. You bring Arthur?"

Slipping out of the other side of the chair, the dark-skinned man smiles faintly. "He did indeed, young Hawke." He twists to close the door, the motion natural despite the awkwardness; he's had a long, long time to adjust to his lack of a left hand. Most of it anyway. "I wish this were under better circumstances, but it is good to see you again."

"You too," he says, offering the lawyer a fistbump. He'd begun the tradition during his edgy phase, trying to rattle the straight-laced man, but now it serves to help calm and steady him when he inevitably ends up in dog shit and needs to be bailed out. The pair bump knuckles, then Garrett goes up top, then below the other man's fist, before finishing by hooking thumbs.

"Any idea what this is about?" he asks, to which his father shakes his head.

"I've not been able to find out anything," Arthur murmurs quietly. An ex-cop that went into law after a drunk t-boned his police cruiser and cost him most of his left hand and thirty-four percent of his left knee's flexibility, Arthur still has a lot of friends on the force— particularly as he's not above offering legal advice pro-bono. "Certainly nothing as big as catching one of the Lords and Ladies of Kirkwall with your drawers flapping."

"Okay. So whatever they say, I didn't do it. Easy enough." Garrett gives a wan smile. "Shall we?"

Grinning, Arthur gestures for the pair to head inside. The guard at the desk directs them all to an interview room. Ten minutes later, the guard that had been with Vallen enters. "Misters Hawke, Mister...?"

"Pike. Arthur Pike, Phd in criminal law, masters in abnormal psych and, admittedly less useful, musical history."

Officer za'Frane pauses, then nods. "I see. Thank you all for coming down so promptly."

"Of course," Garrett chirps. "How can I help?"

"I'm afraid I can't say," he replies with fair politeness. "I've simply come to ask Mister Hawke— the elder— to come to the waiting room next door. Captain Vallen wishes to speak with you as well, before speaking with Mister Hawke the younger. Mister Pike is, of course, welcome to attend both conversations."

"Of course," Malcolm replies, straightening his tie. "Lead the way."

"Thank you sir," za'Frane says, relaxing a little at Malcolm's agreeability. "Right this way."

A few minutes after the pair leave, Mal being more comfortable speaking alone rather than leaving Garrett by himself, Captain Vallen enters the room. She doesn't say a word before taking a seat and turning a recorder on. "This is Captain Aveline Vallen, ident 01742, interviewing Garrett Tobias Hawke Amell with legal council present. Please identify yourselves and confirm your understanding of the following rights," she begins briskly, continuing to rattle off a few lines of legal white noise.

"This is Garrett Tobias Hawke Amell," he says, sounding faintly puzzled. "I guess I understand what you're saying. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, right? More to the point, I understand you have some questions for me? Sorry to make you wait; daddy always said never to talk about this kind of thing without a lawyer present."

"Arthur Pike," said lawyer adds politely. "Criminal defense lawyer representing young Garrett here."

 _A-something Fish,_ she realizes. _Idiot. Not as dumb as he makes himself out either. He's good, very good, but there's too many social sightings of him acting charming and witty to be entirely believable._ "Of course; good advice for those that can afford a lawyer on retainer. Regardless. Does the name Douglas Suthie sound familiar?" she asks sharply, watching Garrett for any sort of reaction.

Garrett's legs tense, under the table, but his puzzled smile stays in place. "I can't say I've heard of him, no— unless he's the new guy HR just hired?" he asks, glancing upward as if thinking.

"That would be very interesting. Hopefully you weren't depending on him to show up to work, as is currently in a holding cell. Very hard-working, a real self-motivated go-getter. We caught him with almost sixty-eight kilos of lyrium, plus assorted other illegals. Does that jog your memory any?"

"Lyrium? I don't use the stuff," Garrett replies, his voice casual. "That sounds very illegal?"

"No? There were some... Indications to the contrary few months back, weren't there?"

"You mean the false positive from my antibiotics?"

"Those charges were dropped, with apologies, a mistake caused by testing error," Pike adds smoothly, tone polite and helpful, but his eyes holding a warning. "It could be considered slander to bring that sort of thing up again."

"Making an accusation, or claiming such was truth could. Asking a question, however..." Pike inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "So you are attesting, Mister Hawke, that you do not recognize this person in his capacity as an illegal drug dealer?"

"No, nothing comes to mind." He shakes his head, shrugging. "Was he on Cops? I'm not sure how else I would have met the guy, honestly."

Vallen stares a long moment, giving him time to change his mind on that statement. "Interesting. You see, given the amount and type of drugs that Suthie was pick up with, he's looking at it easy thirty to forty year sentence. And not in a soft jail either." Her smile sharpens. "Cowards being what they are, as soon as he realized that he was caught, he started looking for a way out. Of course, with that sort of supply on hand it's clear who his suppliers are, and just as clear that he doesn't want to squeal on them if he can help it. So he went down first."

Without explanation, the captain puts down a single, slightly grainy, black and white photo of Garrett on the table. The young man has an easy smile on his face and is wearing a tattered t-shirt with the top half of a band logo visible.

Garrett stares down at the photo, his smile still in place, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He rests his hand gently on Arthur's knee— no more than that, but it's a desperate plea for help he refuses to let show on his face.

"Huh," he says slowly. "Is that... the promo from the Daily Mail piece?"

"It is not," Vallen says instantly, clearly ready for such a response. "In fact, I took the liberty of checking every press release on digital file from the last four years. No matches."

Leaning forward, Pike looks worried and grateful. "While I might have wished that you had explain the purpose of this questioning, I'm deeply grateful to the police department for bringing this potential stalker to our notice so quickly. Do you have any ideas on a motive for _why_ he was following young Garrett? Money I suppose?"

Vallen gapes at the lawyer.

"Wow, that's so creepy," says Garrett, his hand relaxing a bit to rest more gently on Arthur's leg. "Should I get a bodyguard? I do some karate but I don't know, what if he has a gun?"

" _What_?" Vallen's nostrils flare and she almost growls the word. "No! Gar— Garrett Hawke was identified by Douglas Suthie as one of his buyers."

Garrett blinks. "But I don't use lyrium. I've been drug tested weekly as part of this new job, so even if I wanted to start, I'd get caught, like, _right_ away."

"You get— why are you tested weekly?" Vallen demands, pouncing on that possible thread of hope.

"Everyone is. The boss is a real stickler for it." he shrugs. "Transportation industry can be like that, I suppose."

"Everyone is required to take blood tests weekly? That seems to be very expensive," Vallen notes, eyes narrowed.

"Garrett has been selected to act as assistant to the CEO. It's a position of great trust and responsibility. One can only imagine that he is thus held to a high standard, perhaps even higher than the average employee," Pike adds.

Garrett shrugs. "I guess the cleaning staff don't? But the people I work with do. I can get the handbook for you if you like."

"...that won't be necessary, thank you," Vallen says slowly. _Easy enough for Thedas to fake something anyway._ "So no idea how or why Suthie would have this image on his ocular implant archive? An archive of his buyers, to be specific? We've already made several arrests of others gleaned from there," she adds, placing a folder on the table. "Others are still being sought for questioning- perhaps you recognize _them_?" She flips open the folder, splaying an array of photos. Most are just normal strangers, if somewhat slanted towards a grunge or punk aesthetics. One of them however...

 _Fen_. His grip tenses ever so slightly on Arthur's knee, but he gives a puzzled frown. "It looks like a Blink 182 concert; is that what druggies look like?" he asks slowly.

 _What was that? He tensed just there... did he recognize one of the other buyers?_ Vallen ignores him, studying the photos in an attempt to determine which caught his attention. _One of the last few, not sure which._ "So none of these look familiar?" Vallen presses, slowly shuffling the photos around.

"I think I saw that guy on MTV one time," he says, indicating one of the blue-haired photos.

Pike tenses his leg under Garrett's hand, a silent warning to tone it down a little. "I'm terribly sorry that my client isn't able to help you do your job, Captain, but..." Pike spreads his hands helplessly, not shying away or attempting to hide the maimed one at all.

"Of course. Perhaps you were... just in the area?" Vallen suggests. "According to Suthie, you came to his corner a half dozen times, purchasing his entire stock each time. Sixty-sixth and Davis?" A terrible neighborhood really, one of the worst in Kirkwall. Not so much due to poverty, but because it's almost openly owned by the dwarven Carta. Suthie had been one of theirs, a human agent used to deal to those who prefer such faces.

Garrett's face lights up. "Oh! That's where Sam's is. I love his sandwiches, best in the city. The only good place to get Bahn Mi sandwiches in all of Kirkwall. That's probably what happened: he must have seen me going to Sam's Deli and took my picture."

 _Well... fuck._ Given that she and Andy had gotten their own lunch at that very place all three days they were canvassing the area, Vallen can't exactly disprove his claim. "I see. Dangerous. Big risk for just sandwiches," she says sourly. "You might want to consider finding a safer neighborhood for your... sandwich needs."

He nods. "Absolutely. This kind of thing is scary; I wouldn't want anything to happen. Thank you so much for the heads up."

Vallen smiles tightly. "Of course. Order and Safety is what we're here for after all." _And I have three photos in particular that I think I need to follow up on personally and closely..._ "Mister Pike, if you're like to follow me, I just have a few questions to ask the elder Hawke and you can all be on your way. Mister Hawke, you can leave now or wait for the others in the main waiting room."

"I ought to get back to work. But thanks." He smiles, getting up and offering a hand to shake. "I know you're working really hard to protect all of us Kirkwall citizens, and I appreciate your vigor."

She has to make herself do it, but she's aware of politics enough to shake his hand when he offers. "Of course. Have a... productive day, Mister Hawke." _Criminal bastard._

* * *

_I got away clean,_ thinks Garrett, as he strolls into the office checking his phone once more. _Dad must still be in with Vallen, and now I'm at work so it's reasonable I won't answer. What the actual fuck— who the fuck takes **pictures** of their customers. I didn't see a camera or even a phone, I was looking for recording devices, so he must have implants. _

_And speaking of having more implants than I knew of..._

"Nita! Wait up," he calls, jogging to the lift and hoping she catches the door for him.

"Garrett!" Nita calls back, sounding relieved— and also holding out her hand to block the doors from closing. "You're back already?"

"Please: it's Gary at work," he says, stepping into the lift. "Yeah, they just wanted to ask me some questions. Listen, I'm sorry about all that," he adds, as the door shut behind him.

"Right, sorry," Nita says with a wince. Thankfully the elevator is empty. "That's wonderful to hear. _Gary_." She flashes him a smile.

He nods. "Listen, I hope this doesn't change anything in your mind about me. I didn't want people thinking, well, probably exactly the sort of things you're thinking right now: that I only got this internship because my father's friends with the owner, that he's lenient on me, anything like that. It's why I was so sensitive about the whole casting couch joke; I may have gotten my foot in the door through professional connections, but I had to work my ass off just like everyone else once I got in."

Nita's smiles turns towards amused. "I'm aware, Gary," she says softly. "I've been working with you for the last few days, remember? And I've seen— seen the project that's still very confidential," she finishes with a laugh. Elevator is empty, yes, but good habits are good to be in the habit of having.

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. "Good. Good." He leans against the wall, then, affecting a more casual stance. "So. I didn't know you were part-Chinese."

Nita raises an eyebrow. "Oh?" she asks, her faint Hispanic accent a touch stronger on the word somehow.

"You have an implant, right? Means you have to have Chinese heritage. Or, rather, Shirén heritage." He shrugs. "I'm cool with it; some of my best friends are Chinese. I'm just surprised."

"Caught that did you?" Nita murmurs, shrugging a little. "And yes, evidently. My mother was a mage and wanted me to follow her path but testing revealed that my talents lay in the opposite direction. It, ah, caused some friction but I am who I am. It's worked out well enough. I couldn't imagine having any life but this to be honest. Of being _happy_ with any other life."

"Good for you," he says heartily. "I don't expect everyone to want to be a mage; I've dated mages and Shirén alike. As long as you're happy, that's what counts."

"Were we speaking of dating?" Nita asks coyly, eyes wide and innocent. She's rather contrary in that way: she's mentioned dating before, and she clearly picks up on most of the flirting and innuendo that happens even when it's not directed at her. But she still has moments of innocence, a sense of shyness or perhaps modesty.

"I don't know— the cops unfortunately cut off whatever you were going to say," he purrs, smirking his lopsided smirk. Then he straightens, cracking his neck. "But seriously, I just think it's cool. Whatcher implants do?"

Nita hesitates, not sure what conversation to follow. Eventually, she just smiles faintly. "This and that. Maybe a bit of something."

"Very enlightening," he quips. "Can you totally control your laptop from across the room like the boss can?" _Or a totally different building, or you know, the hospital._

She hesitates a moment, gazing at him with a expression of consideration. _Not one to reveal my tricks and talents but... All things considered, I figure this can be an exception._ "Yes and no." She laughs at his reaction, then continues. "My implant— just the one— is shit, to be honest. I'm only just able to have one at all. But I wear a linked booster under my clothes at all times. A bit of a hassle but... no-one expects the pretty red-headed human girl to have any sort of implants so it's a nice ace up my... skirt and down my shirt I suppose."

He raises an eyebrow. "That is impressive," he says, glancing down at her skirt. "I must say I approve heartily of what you have under your skirt."

"Making some assumptions there," Nita replies, thankfully amused. "Unless you're implying you simply have no standards and would approve of anything I may or may not have under my skirts."

He spreads his hands, palms up. "You know what the definition of bisexual is? Being able to like anything you have under your skirt," he teases.

Nita stares a second, then bursts into wild laughter.

He grins. "What? It's a good definition."

She wipes at her eyes, grinning back. "I suppose you might have something like a point there, if you squint." She shakes her head. "But..." Her lips twitch from grin to smirk at her word choice— she knows what her best assets are in that particular arena. "Your evasion was well done but I think the worry you caused me nets me a few questions, no? About this morning?"

"Ah," he sighs, as the lift comes to his floor. He reaches out, casually hitting the 'emergency stop' button. "Alright. In short, they had me mistaken for a drug dealer. I explained I've never seen this guy before in my life, never purchased any drugs, and am a sober, upstanding citizen. My father's lawyer will make it all go away." He shrugs, his easy smile gone as he pulls on the persona of Garrett Amell, upstanding rich brat.

 _And how much of that is bullshit, charming Garrett of the Amells?_ "I see. Well." She purses her lips, thinking. Glancing at the panel, she arches an eyebrow. "That's against policy you know. Fire safety code even."

"I live dangerously," he teases, the smile returning to his lips. "Doubly so when there's a pretty girl involved."

Nita snorts lightly. "You are rather good at that— at being blatantly charming, in such a way that it's obvious what you're doing yet so... earnestly that it's very difficult to take offense."

"I'm told it's my special talent. Some mages heal, some are great with fire; I'm great at the magic that is romance." He wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis.

"Maker— are you certain your secret identify is Garrett Amell? Is there any chance you're actually Dale's lost twin or something? Or that he's a lost Amell?"

"Hah! Maybe Dale and Marian were switched at birth," he jokes.

"He does have a thing for twincest and yaoi— obviously," Nita teases him. "In fact..."

Garrett winces. "Now _there's_ one kink I can't get into. Who would fuck their twin? We're like, the most sibling of siblings: grew up side by side. I'm sick to death of her and she's halfway across the world," he groans, rolling his eyes.

"I am an only child myself," Nita admits. "But perhaps that is exactly why? Assuming that you get along with them at least."

Garrett nods. "Mari and I are so different," he suggests, with a shrug. "Any more hard-hitting questions or shall I let the lift go back into service?"

Nita considers it a moment, eyes glancing past him to the panel to check they're at her floor. "Nope. Just..." The emergency lights suddenly shut off and the lift jerks the last few feet. Just as the doors slide open, she moves toward him. Over her shoulder, she adds, "by the way? My booster pack is the _only_ thing that's up and down my clothes." With that, she sways her way out of the lift and down the hall.

He raises an eyebrow, watching her go with a whistle. _We'll see about that._ A moment later he shakes his head like a dog shaking off water. _No. Nevermind. Let her go, Garrett. You're leashed, remember_? He sighs, hitting the button for the top floor as he swipes his badge.

When the doors open again, Varric is in front of his desk, arms crossed and expression blank. "You're late. Hop to or you're going to be here past sundown."

"Yes sir," he drawls, smirking. "I'll get right on that."

"Good." _We need to discuss..._ everything _tonight_. Varric's mouth twists as he heads back to his office. _Jealousy sucks._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mal and his wife Leandra are definitely having problems. Can they work it out, or will they be doomed to divorce? Meanwhile, Varric's got a whole new kind of problem: how much he's into Mal's son. Will Garrett be able to follow his new rules? Or is this doomed to failure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes: BDSM, spanking/whipping, forgetting to safeword.

"Come over", the text had said, so Varric finds himself on Mal's doorstep after work, making his way into the familiar house only to find it in disarray.

Malcolm chugs from a bottle of scotch, watching several professional movers lift furniture and carry it down the hall and up the stairs. Malcolm isn't a buff man; he seems to be doing his best to stay out of the way. His tie is loose, and his suitcoat is unbuttoned, but he doesn't seem plastered, merely in disarray. There's no sign of his wife, and clearly Garrett's not here, as Varric sent him home.

"Glad you could make it," says Mal without looking away from the movers manhandling a dresser.

"And miss the show?" Varric asks with a scoff. _The fuck is going on?_ Varric had agreed to come over without thinking really— he wanted to have that talk with Garrett tonight and, well, the contents of that talk make being around Mal a touch awkward. Or, well, the motivation for having that talk does. 'Hey, I want to make your son crawl on all fours, beg to be tied up, then jerk him off' is not exactly a sentiment Varric is comfortable thinking, much less discussing with Mal. And yet, he can't imagine the degree of betrayal not telling him would register as. So... that leaves things a bit complicated in the dwarf's mind at the moment.

"Hah! They're almost done," the elf-blood says, casually taking another sip. "I'm moving Leandra's things to the poolhouse," he adds. "I told her to move to the guest room, but she moved me instead. I switched it back, putting her in the blue guest room, but she dumped my things in the study."

"...is there a bed in the pool house?" A pause. "Or a bathroom?"

"There will be a bed," he says happily. "And there's even a shower, just not a toilet. She's welcome to cross the yard." He's being petty. He knows damn well he's being petty. But to hell if she's going to displace him from his own goddamn bedroom because _she_ cheated on _him_. "Let's go to the study," he says, pushing off the wall and striding down the hall. "They'll be at this a while."

"Huh." Varric swallows manfully. "That's,uh," he coughs softly, "fucking hilarious. Petty furniture wars." Taking a breath, he shakes his head and follows.

It seems they've gotten Mal's study put to rights at least; he lets Varric into the large space, locking the door behind him and gesturing for him to sit on the couch, near the six bookshelves. His desk faces away from the bay windows, looking out over the pool and garden; there's a dry bar in here, clearly where he got the bottle since there are a few others set out. You could fit a bedroom set in here if you shoved everything to the side, but it's _his_ space, one he doesn't like to let Leandra into, and she violated that by moving his things.

He sits on his desk, putting the bottle down. "I need to take advantage of my freedom. I'm going stir crazy," he says, sighing. "I haven't dated in over two decades."

_Uhhhh... new topic please?_ "Well, being married can have that effect. You figure out how to tell the kids yet? Twins get back from school in... five weeks? six?"

"I can't tell them," he says, with a shrug. "The twins will notice, of course. I'll send them to ask their mother. I'm curious what she'll say." He takes a sip, then asks, casually, "you ever think about you and me? If Leandra wasn't in the picture?"

_Stone cracks and Maker shits. Why now?_ "...once, a long time ago maybe," Varric says carefully. "Think that ship has sailed though." He jerks a shoulder. "Kind of... dancing around someone at the moment."

"Really? That's wonderful news," he replies, sounding actually pleased. "I'd love to see you with someone. Nobody should be alone," he adds, sighing wistfully. "I should have confronted Leandra years ago. I just... seeing Garrett like that— Maker's breath, I don't think I can take one more Garrett-related tragedy right now."

"Not _everything_ Garrett-related is a tragedy," Varric protests.

"You have some good news I don't? Because from where I sit, I spent most of today in the police station trying not to get him arrested for drugs I know he bought, and then I come home to this Leandra bullshit on top of it."

"He's made some new friends," Varric says promptly, tone a touch defensive. "At work, good sorts. And his project goes live at the end of the week." He purses his lips, then adds carefully, "and when his ex got into trouble— medical stuff— he came to me to solve it instead of trying to do it himself. So. Good news."

He sighs. "That's good— I don't mean to disparage it— but... you understand? If you told me Marian had done those things I'd say, it's Tuesday. And Garrett has no less potential. But— no, I'm not doing this. I'm not spending one more minute thinking about Garrett today, not unless something new happens. I can't keep stressing myself out like this; my BP is through the roof, and I'm only pushing him further away by yelling at him."

"Can't argue with that last at least," he allows slowly. "He really is trying, you know. He... he isn't as naturally academic as Marian, and he got it in his head that this means he's not as good. So, well, he gave up a little. Resigned himself to just being a figurehead and producing an heir with the girl you and Leandra— mostly her— picked out for him, and wanting to live it up before he has to... well, to be blunt, marry his Bitch." He shrugs a little. "That sort of thing can put your head in some weird places."

He rakes a hand through his hair. "I _really_ should have done this years ago. Damn her. I hope she gets possessed. No, I don't, dammit, but— you get the idea."

"I could..." Varric trails off, allowing Mal to select his level of revenge.

"No," he says quickly. "She already hates you. I don't want her thinking we're..." He gestures with the bottle. "But if you know any eligible bachelors, I could use a blind date. I figure if I stick to men, I can always claim that she's my True Bride, just like the Maker to Andraste, and the others are just dalliances."

"Meant more in her direction," Varric says with amusement. "Cause all her online orders to foul up or make a bunch of donations to queer rights groups in her name." He cocks his head to the side. "Got any, hmmm, got a shopping list of qualities?"

"Donation sounds like a great plan," he allows. "Hmm. Handsome, of course. Discreet. Skilled; I don't want to walk some young thing through his first time. Low-maintenance. A mage would be preferable."

_Brain no. Brain this is..._ "Dalish elf fine?" Varric finds himself asking. "Tech aware, but mage? Non-combatant, not terribly strong but knowledgeable. Very... not looking for a Thing."

"That sounds promising," he says, with a nod.

"Works in my IT department doing magic-hardening," Varric explains. "Also does a lot of translations for the mage department, as he went to a human school and got a decent tech background for a mage. Real fluffy, too Dalish for the Dales sort of name, but goes by Dale."

"Dale, huh? Maybe explain the situation, but if he's willing, pass on my number. And, thanks," he adds, smiling a bit. "I know you're under a lot of stress too, lately. I'm sorry. If I realized the extent to which my son was— I didn't mean to ask quite this big a favor of you."

"It's..." Varric hesitates, wanting to word this right. "No, it's been... good. Doing you a favor ended months ago. He— I like him. I want to help."

"I'm glad," he says softly. "I just wish... Well. I trust you. Whatever he needs, I'm happy to provide." He shakes his head, ruefully. "Do you want to play some badminton? I think some exercise might do me good."

"You need to learn a real damn sport," Varric grumbles but pushes up out his seat. "Just a few games, I want to get home in time to make dinner or Garrett will try to use the stove again."

Malcolm shakes his head ruefully. "If I suggested soccer, I'd have too much of an unfair advantage— your stubby little legs are no match for my peak condition," he jokes, not wanting to take the bait to talk about Garrett again.

* * *

Garrett paces the floor in Fen's room, uncharacteristically silent— he doesn't want to ramble aloud in front of (or to) Fenris about Varric, but at the same time, he can't sit still, he can't focus, he can't get work done or—

"He's home." There's no beeping as the alarm is disengaged, at least not on a level the two can hear, but Barkspawn lifts his head, ears pricking forward, and that means either Varric's just walked in (signaling supper) or a criminal has broken into the house (also, perhaps, signaling supper).

Garrett takes a deep breath, turning to Fen. "Right. Okay. Stay here. I'll-"

"I could hardly do else."

"Yeah, yeah. Good plan. Okay. Barky, stay. Guard." He signals for Barkspawn to remain where he is, then, planting a kiss on Fenris' cheek, darts out of the room, the massive mabari padding silently behind him.

The other two dogs in the room perk their ears up but remain as their leader Barkspawn directed, guarding the infirm but misbehaving pack member. They're not supposed to savage him, but they're not supposed to let him wander or anything either. Whatever. Thumb-people are weird.

Garrett finds Varric in the kitchen, already getting out a side of beef flank that's been cut into strips to marinate over the course of the day. The dwarf glances at the human and nods a greeting but remains silent at first.

Garrett nods back, moving to stand beside Varric, his hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. It's overkill. He knows it's overkill. It's a bit silly, really. And yet... it's the best way he can think of to show respect and submission.

Submission isn't something he ever thought he'd offer. He always figured if he was going to get into BDSM play, he'd be the dominant, the rich, elite figure ushering some timid virgin into The Lifestyle. And yet, with the way he's been acting, after all the trouble he's caused, after his willful disobedience in the past and trying to get around the rules... submission is the biggest show of trust he can offer. The willingness to be quiet, to wait obediently for orders, is something he has never offered another human being before in his life. And so, in that sense, to offer it to someone who has done so much for him, all without thanks or payment, feels right somehow.

By the ghost of a smile that crosses the typically stoic dwarf's face, Varric appreciates it. "Fenris doing okay?" he asks in a low voice. Not so much to keep things private or anything, but simply because being loud seems somehow wrong, almost profane, right now.

"Yes, sir," he says, his tone equally quiet — he's not sure why they're being quiet, but he trusts there's a reason. Varric doesn't do things without reason. "He's resting. The dogs are keeping an eye on him; he needed help to get out of bed today, so it's unlikely he'll cause any trouble."

Varric nods again, hands deftly going about the process of cutting up potatoes to fry along with the steak strips. Not his normal fare but Garrett seems to prefer non-Chinese dishes from time to time. "How're you doing? Especially after that little scare this morning?"

His instinct is to wave off the question but he pauses instead, really taking stock. "I think it will be alright," he says slowly. "I'm not afraid I'll be arrested, not really. I'm more worried about the impact... I didn't want Nita knowing my identity. I don't think she'll tell, but if she does, my work relationships may suffer. I am... tired. It's been a very long week."

"Juanita's solid," Varric says simply. "She won't spread anything important. You... seem to like her." _I had not meant to say that..._

"I do," he says quietly. "She's a smart girl, and pretty. She'll go far. I keep having to remind myself I'm not— this is not a good time to make new friends."

"Friends are fine. But... I don't share well," Varric says slowly. "At least to start." He turns to face Garrett. "We need to discuss that sort of thing. Do you... are you... balanced enough after the hell week you've had or do you need time to recover first?"

"Let's talk," he says quietly. "I'd like to know what you think. Even if we can't come to an agreement right now, let's talk." He takes a deep breath. "You said as much, before— and I don't expect you to. I'm not looking to start something with Nita or Dale."

Varric nods slowly. "Good. Alright. So. Clearly the first thing, given we've already broached it, is the matter of exclusivity."

Garrett bites his lower lip. "I can't... not feel for Fen," he says slowly. "But I can tell him, no more sex."

"I don't expect you to leash your heart that way. No more sex is fine." He pauses. "No more Anders though, at all. Again, I get you can't just... stop feeling what you do. But no communication, no helping him... nothing."

Garrett pauses, frowning. "I get the feeling that's not a relationship request so much as an order," he says slowly. "In which case, I will comply."

Varric pauses a moment, considering that carefully. "Fair observation. And good. But it's fine that you... feel things for Fenris still. Or Isabela or even Juanita, if you do. As long as you don't act on any of it." A pause. "Without permission."

He perks up slightly. "Yes, sir," he says softly. "I would... like permission, from time to time. That would be..." _hot as hell_. "Interesting. But I will leave that up to your judgement." _And comfort level._

A flicker of a smile. "Yes, I imagine you would," he says wryly. "Especially given that— I don't know when or even if I'll be comfortable with... full-on sex."

Garrett pauses. "How do you define sex?" he asks, after a moment.

Varric shrugs. "In this case, I mean penetrative. I don't... I think I mentioned I have some... I was never entirely sure what they were aiming for, probably something along the lines of what Fenris has, the EMP thing, but it— Implantation failed in me. Badly. My skin is... disfigured. So."

"I don't care about that," he says quietly. "But.. there's lots of things that leaves on the table. I assume you mean anal and oral are out, but handjobs? Heavy petting? Spanking?"

"On me? Yeah, those are all out. I... I think, to start at least, consider the limits being that only my hands and head are in play. Feet too, I guess, but that's not... really something I've tried before. Willing to try if you want though."

He nods. "Not a lot I can do with that, but it leaves a lot open to be done _to_ me. What... would you want? In return? Would it be enough to do things to me, and leave it at that?"

"...I think so," Varric says slowly. "I... I've tried this before but... One-offs. It wasn't enough to be satisfying. Mentally. I have an implant that can redirect blood flow. Doesn't exactly stop— or start— things but removing the... evidence makes it easier to ignore. Been using that to get by since I gave up on the scene. But I used to just... take care of it myself, afterwards, in private." _And in the dark, with a glove on._

"What would... make it better?" he asks, quietly. "Is— it sounds like BDSM is something you're interested in— would more of that be better, for you? In exchange for the more vanilla things I usually enjoy?"

"I... do enjoy it. Rather a lot. But I know it's not for everyone," Varric says quickly. "So, yes, I would like to try, but you have to promise to give me honest and complete feedback. To safeword if you need to."

He nods. "Can we... try it? Before we decide if this will work? I want to know, but I've never... a little hair-pulling here and there, I don't mind the pain, but... whatever it is you enjoy?"

Varric nods slowly. "That's fair," he allows. "Say... say a trial period? We hash things out now as best we can, then revisit in a month. Decide if it's workable, if it needs tweaking and so forth. Mind you, we can course correct mid-trial, just..."

He nods. "And... can we not tell my father until the trial is over? It seems.. if he's going to blow a gasket, I'd rather know for sure this is worth losing the last of his respect for me."

"For one, the details of our sex life don't need to be anyone's business but ours," Varric says firmly. "For another, it's me that'll be getting the dragon's share of his ire about this."

He looks away. "Somehow, I doubt that," he says, even quieter than they have been, not that Varric can't make out every syllable anyway. "He _trusts_ you. It's more likely he'll assume I took advantage of your hospitality."

"He _loves_ you. You're his son. He'll think..." Varric shakes his head. "Speculation, neither of us can be sure. But yes, we can wait until after the trial period to tell anyone."

He nods. "So. What are the rules, for now? No sex with anyone else; how often do you want to, ah, tangle? I have to admit," he adds, blushing a little, "the past few months have been... hard. I'm used to... well. Considerably more than the nothing I've been getting. It's not the same playing solo."

"How often do you normally... tangle?"

"Ah. Maybe... well, not counting solo play, anywhere from thrice a week to daily? Lots of hookups, which I'll of course give up, when I was living on campus. Split between Anders and Fen more recently, hence the drop-off."

"Once a day plus jerking off?" Varric blurts out, nearly burning his thumb on the edge of the pan in surprise. "How do you get shit done?"

He shrugs. "Go to class, do my homework, hit the bar, hook up, be back in bed by three AM. Why, how often did you used to play?"

"...pre-Revelation? Every other day at most, but that was the height of puberty when I'd just figured out how to hack into porn sites. Nowadays? Been about three years."

Garrett gapes. "...not counting masturbation?" he asks slowly, almost pleadingly.

"The first part, pre-Rev was all masturbation. I've never had penetrative sex. Too young before, too... reluctant after. And no, I just... turn off the erection and ignore the desire. Channel it into work."

Garrett stares at him in shock a moment longer before shaking his head slowly. "Okay. No. Let's do this tonight. Let's play _tonight_. I want to learn and you've _got_ to be starved for it."

Varric snorts, clearly amused. "Business before pleasure, shagua. I want to hammer out basics first at least."

"Fine," he agrees, "but then? Tonight?"

"If we have time afterwards, yes, we can try something small and simple at least."

"Alright. The basics. Can we agree on at least once a week?"

"Schedule permitting, yes. And if we have to shift things around, it can be made up. Was more thinking about what kinds of things are you interested in playing? Noticed you mentioned spanking more than once but is that an interest or just the most typical thing when people think about BDSM?"

"I, ah... I've seen some porn," he begins, slowly. "Spanking, paddling, bondage, it all looks really... interesting. I'd like to try that sort of thing."

"Bondage is... fun," Varric murmurs. "How's your pain tolerance? Not just how much can you stand, but how much do you like?"

"I... don't know?" he offers. "Like I said, I've had my hair yanked around, been handled rough, slapped even, and it didn't kill my libido. And I've fucked while injured. So... a lot?"

"Slapped?" Varric asks, brow furrowing. "And— what do you mean by 'handled rough,' exactly?"

"Pushed, tossed around, wrestled, you know. Rough." He shrugs.

"That's pretty close to BDSM as is," he notes, relaxing a little. _Sounds like he's more familiar with this sort of thing than he realizes._ "Ever done role play?"

Garrett shakes his head.

"I'm sure you seen it done though, right? In porn if nowhere else?"

"Ye-es, but it seems sort of... hokey," he admits. "Why would I want to pretend to be someone else during sex? It seems like it'd be more hollow."

"Not necessarily another person. Roles. Like... my obedient servant. Or the penitent mage. Probably best to stay away from anything with a professional theme. Already dodgy enough, you working for me."

"Ah," he says, slowly. "To be honest... I like using what we have. The situation... perhaps it's because I'm not getting any, but there seems to be potential. I— you have power over me, real power, in a way nobody ever has, and I find that exciting." He swallows, forcing a smile onto his face, hoping Varric takes that well. "To me, this is just... adding the physical layer."

"I... Well, I can't deny... having enjoyed elements of this," Varric confesses carefully. "But we need to be careful that the, ah, game element doesn't stop or undo our efforts in making you less of a... well-intentioned disaster."

"Why would it?" he asks, quietly, his eyes intense. "I know what you're trying to do. I respect it. How would I respect you any less? If nothing else, it gives you more leverage."

"That we don't get so caught up in the game that we forget about reality. That... it's pretty common for subs to act out, in order to get a punishment they want. And if you get too into it, you might act out in a big way." He shrugs a little. "Point is, we need to remember you first, then your dick."

Garrett nods. "Right. Got it." He takes a deep breath. "What... do you want me to call you?"

"...sir has been nice. Zhu, if you want something more... title-ish."

Garrett nods. "Alright. What else? Is that good enough for now?"

"Safewords. One for 'slow down or adjust what you're doing' and one for 'stop everything, something is very wrong.'"

"Uh. What do you usually use?"

"I usually used the other person's safewords," he admits. "Easier for the dom to remember new words."

"Uh. I guess 'stop' is a bad one?" he offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah. You want something that won't come up in a scene. Give it some thought, we have time. Dinner, then showers first."

"Okay. Anything else I should know or do to prepare?" he offers.

"What do you normally do to prepare for sex?" Varric asks curiously.

"Prep condoms, make sure I have lubricant, and maybe clean out in the shower if I'm feeling real lenient," he offers. "But you said you weren't up for anal so that's a no."

"...real lenient?" Varric asks, not sure if he wants to know.

"I usually prefer to top," he says, adding, "as in, penetrate. But once in a while I'll bottom for Fen, when he needs to work out some aggression."

_And that's something I now know about him (why?!). Neat (not)._ "...I see. Doubt we'll get anywhere that far tonight, so you can skip that," Varric says after a moment. "So. Any questions for me?"

Garrett shakes his head. "Not that I haven't already asked. I... I look forward to this. To trying this. And I hope it works." He unclasps his hands, then, rolling his shoulders a little. "I should shower, and then sit with Fen for a bit until dinner's ready. Unless you need anything else? Cool, I'll be back shortly."

* * *

Fenris decides to have dinner in his room, not feeling up to eating with Garrett and Varric; whatever was said between them has put him in a sour mood, and Garrett seems accommodating of him. He dresses up, oddly enough, wearing a button-down and slacks to dinner, his hair washed and freshly tied back; afterward, he does the dishes while Varric showers, meeting him in the front room with a zip-top pencil case full of supplies.

He's never been down to the basement, where Varric leads him; he still hasn't a few moments later, as they head past the first two levels to the sub-sub basement Garrett didn't even know existed. Here, they pass several ominous-looking steel frames he's told not to worry about, entering the landing and passing what's clearly a server room with a thumbprint access panel and a storage room full of waterproof shipping containers. Varric leads the boy to the back room, where a heavy king-size bed sits opposite an empty dresser and a flat-screen television. The bed is a fourposter made of solid, dark wood, something that can take a lot of strain without being damaged.

"So... you have a survival bunker in your basement," says Garrett slowly.

"Yes?" Varric asks, not sure why he felt the need to comment on it. "Year worth of rations and lyrium, hygiene supplies, puzzles and weapons. Geothermal tap and water filtration system. Carbon fiber wrapped tungsten pipelines for all the water, power and fiber optic cables, which lead to three separate sat uplinks plus my headquarters. Real bitch to get that part done." He frowns a little. "Mal never showed you his bunker? It's not nearly as good but..."

"We don't have a— do you mean the panic room? We have a panic room," he says slowly. "You're... a nervous sort of person, aren't you? Like Fen."

"I'm not nervous," Varric says defensively. "I'm _prepared_. Ready."

"Well, on that note," he says, and unzips his pouch, moving to set things out on the dresser. "I have condoms and two kinds of lube. This one's silicone, it feels nicer on the skin, but this one's water-based, use that with toys if they're made of silicone, otherwise you get pitting and that's bad. Condoms come in regular and three flavors, all sized to fit me."

"You're a horny sort of person, aren't you?" Varric says dryly.

"I'm a man, aren't I?" he jokes. "Which, speaking of toys, if you want I can grab mine next time I'm at my dad's. They're stashed away there, to, uh. Honestly, because most of my stuff went there when we sold the flat and well, I didn't want to tempt myself to sneak off and look for a hookup."

"Well, I have silk rope and some leather cords here," Varric muses. "Grabbed a riding crop before we came down— an actual one, from the week I spent learning how to ride a horse just in case. Candles, ice... linen bandages for a blindfold..."

Garrett nods. "I picked out a safeword: lyrium."

"...could come up in some scenes but we can avoid those. Probably best we did," Varric agrees. "And for your pause/slow word?"

"Uh." He blinks. "Didn't know I needed one. How about... uh..."

"Tulip?" Varric offers after Garrett blue-screens for a good minute. "Doubt you'd ever say it without meaning to, but you can work it in most scenes one way or another. With a soft safeword, that's a virtue, as it cues the dom to correct without breaking the scene."

He nods. "Okay. So. Is that all we need, can we get started?"

"Eager little thing, aren't we?" Varric says in a steady voice. "Shoes, socks and shirt off. Kneel in the center of the room, head down, don't move or speak when you're done." Without another word or glance, Varric leaves the room.

For about two seconds. "Shite. That was sloppy, shouldn't slip into a scene without a clear marker. Yes, we can start." And then he's gone again.

Garrett smiles, amused at the antics. Then he sobers, realizing that it's really about to happen: he's about to have sex, or something like it, with _Varric_. His father's best friend. And, apparently, his new dominant.

Fear and excitement mingle in his gut as he kneels, unbuttoning his shirt almost ritually. He hadn't bothered with shoes or socks, so it's only the shirt he has to remove now. _This is happening. We're going to do kinky shit. I hope I can handle it— Maker, I hope I can handle it! I hope it's not too painful or too frightening. I hope I don't fuck this up like I do everything else. Maker._ The heady mix of fear and arousal stirs his cock a touch as he slides off the shirt, folding it neatly and placing it on the floor beside him. He folds his hands in his lap, bowing his head, and waits, feeling the slight chill in the typically-unused room against his skin, listening for every small sound, any telltale creak of hinges or scrape of foot across concrete.

_Maker, I hope I don't fuck this up._

It's almost five minutes he has to sit and think before Varric returns. Five long minutes. And before Varric enters, Garrett realizes that there's music it had built slowly, subtly, so he can't really be sure when it started. Something soft, with harps and bells or chimes or something. Soothing and unobtrusive but not boring thanks to its complexity. A bit of cloth is draped over his bare shoulder and Varric murmurs, "tie that around your eyes."

Garrett is about to answer when he realizes he hasn't been given permission to speak; instead, he swallows, closing his mouth again, and reaches up to tie the blindfold around his eyes. _I hope that's right..._

"Good shagua," Varric murmurs, stroking the top of his head. Once Garrett is down, Varric pulls his hands back behind him, then expertly binds them together with a length of very soft, very smooth rope, and tugs him upright. "Now to the bed. You're going to lay down flat on your stomach," he warns the other male via a command.

Garrett nods, nearly stumbling over his feet as he manages to get to the bed. He could get a sense of the topography if he reaches out with his mage-sense, but he prefers not to, wondering if Varric would consider it cheating— or worse, if it might cause Varric's implants to backfire the way it can sometimes cause Fen's. Probably not. Hopefully not. But he's learned to keep his magic leashed, to the point where many at work probably don't even realize he's a mage.

When he reaches the bed, he leans forward, resting his cheek on the coverlet, taking a deep breath. _Alright. Now what?_

'Now what' turns out to be having his upper arms looped with more rope. By the way the bed creaks and shifts, he figures he's probably now bound to the bed as well. He could normally slip them off, as it's just a loop, but with his hands tied together, not so much. And silk is both flame and magic resistant, in addition to be very strong. "Curious... did you forget or just not care that my elevator has a camera and mic in it?" Varric asks in a murmur, his voice coming from... all around him? How the fuck?

"Both," he replies, a shiver running down his spine. "I stopped caring some time ago that you were likely to listen to every conversation I have."

"And I'm sure you are _well_ aware that you were flirting with Juanita rather blatantly?" Again, Varric voice seems to whisper from multiple directions, directions that change from word to word but never all at once. Either he's been holding back the ability to hover at speed or he's got some trickery going on with hidden speakers.

_Oh. Is he— is he **jealous**?_ A small smirk slips onto the mage's lips. "Yes, sir, I was."

"...proud of that, are we?" Varric asks.

"No, sir," the submissive adds, still smirking.

"Lying, shagua?" The words are nearly crooned, and directly in Garrett's ear. Without delay, the human feels a length of soft rope snapped across his clad ass.

He yelps in surprise, having not expected that — not that it hurts. "No, sir!" he manages, the smirk now gone.

Another crack, the blow long and even across his ass. Not very hard, but certainly enough to catch his attention despite being ready for it now.

Garrett swallows, his heart pounding in his chest. _I'm not!_ he protests silently, jaw set.

"Were you proud of flirting with her? Of her flirting back? Did you enjoy it?"

"I enjoyed it, sir," he offers, hesitant.

Another swat, but just one and lighter. "Good. Honesty is good. Do you have any more honesty to share?

"I'm not proud, sir," he protests.

"No? Then why the smirk? What were you feeling there?"

"Happy, sir."

"Happy about what?" The lash trails across his back, a soft warning.

Garrett smirks again, then, the startlement fading and the pain never much to begin with. "I was happy," he begins, his voice a bit sing-song. "Because you're jealous."

A pause. "Cheek." With no more warning than that, Varric snaps the lash thrice. Rapid, fleeting touches at his shoulders that sting far more than the other hits so far. Then a fourth, a solid blow to his upper thighs.

Garrett yelps, but it ends in a giggle. _Hah! I wonder which smarts more— the lash or that I saw right through him?_

_Brat._ Still, Varric can't fight off the smile. After that hit, there's nothing for a long moment, then a moderate hard blow to his calves, then slightly softer to the soles of his feet. Then a hand slaps his ass _hard_.

Garrett yelps again, though the pain isn't much in truth. _I suppose my pain tolerance is higher than I thought; not surprising, given all I've gone through,_ he figures.

Another pause, even longer this time. Then, instead of a blow, he feels... tugging, on his pants. And a tearing sound; is Varric _cutting_ his pants off? "H-hey, those are—" he chirps, before recalling he's probably not meant to protest.

"Hush," Varric snaps, delivering a stinging slap to his silk-clad ass before resuming his removal.

Garrett swallows, nodding. _Ass._

His slacks are torn away to reveal silk boxes in a fetching red color, with a soft pattern in deeper burgundy over top. Very subtle. Very fetching. Varric neatly, almost primly, removes the scraps of his pants, then... vanishes. "More?" his voice asks mildly from everywhere a short time later. "Sharper?"

Garrett nods, twice, once for each question. _Yes. I can take more. I can take a **lot** more. Show me what you can do._

"Remember: no talking except for two very specific words," Varric warns him. A hand trails down his spine, soft in touch, firm and strong in presence. This continues for several repetitions, then Varric sighs softly, almost wistfully. The hand pulls back, then a few seconds latter, a length of something very hard wrapped in cloth of some kind smacks into his back, though he's careful to avoid striking anywhere near the spine, aiming instead for shoulders and hips. A staccato of blows follows the first, raining down on his back, thighs, calves, arms.

It's not the pain, not really — it's the rapidity, the unexpectedness, the sharpness. Garrett tumbles, the world opening a rift beneath him, and his focus narrows until there's nothing in the universe but him and the pain. He tenses, gripping the blanket, but he's not even aware of it, nor is he aware he begins to glow instinctively, mana channeling into the welts on his back unbidden. He rides it out, gritting his teeth, endorphins flooding his body to counter-act the purported damage.

For that brief moment, everything is simple, and everything is somehow _right._

The blows cut off abruptly and someone kneels next to Garrett. "Talk to me, shagua," Varric asks gently, voice coming just from him.

"...uh?" he manages, a low, confused groan.

Varric sighs a little, then starts to rub Garrett's back, making sure to keep it smooth and gentle. And waits.

"Wha..." the mage mumbles, shaking his head a little. "Wh'stop?" he slurs.

"You glowed and healed yourself. While spasming," Varric says bluntly. "That's concerning."

He shakes his head, struggling to focus. "...I wh— oh. I uh. I do that," he says, a flush coming to his cheeks. "When I'm not expecting to be hurt. It um, it's saved my life before."

"...you need to learn the difference between attack and punishment," Varric sighs softly. "More, you need to learn when to heal yourself from injury and when to stop. What to focus on first. I'll look around for a proper teacher for you."

"I've had tutors," he protests. "I just..."

" _Proper_ tutors," Varric repeats, then cracks him across the ass with the padded stick. "No backtalk," he adds. "Do you need me to get you some silk gloves and such or can you control your magic?" _Impressive that he can do that in the silk ropes (internal is easier, I think though)._

"No, sir. I'm prepared now." Garrett suspects this isn't the time to bring up the fact he's overloaded silk before. It just seems like a later conversation.

"Good lad," Varric murmurs absently, studying the form spread out before him. Hmmm. What next... Smiling faintly, Varric takes the loose braid of ropes he had made in one hand, the padded wooden dowel in the other. _Let's switch it up a bit, yeah?_ Humming softly— and broadcasting around the room again— he starts to beat out patterns on Garrett, taking care to switch up his tools regularly.

Garrett swallows back a grunt, hands clutching at the bedspread once more — but he doesn't lose his grip on his magic this time. Now that he's prepared for it, it's not hard to keep his instincts in check; doing so, however, jars him out a little, prevents him from sinking into that blissful state he grasped moments earlier. The pain is just pain, not an overwhelming force; he feels safe, grounded, pushing his limits in a way he enjoys, but no more so than a good spar.

_I need to figure out how to lock away my magic,_ he decides. _So I can let go and not lose control._

Whipping the lash over his shoulder to free his hand, Varric grips the back of Garrett's neck. "Check-in," he asks gently, using the rod in his other hand to tap and rub Garrett's lower body.

"I'm good, sir," he manages, his voice a bit hoarse.

"What have you liked the most?" Varric asks gently, rubbing at his neck even as he continues to smack him gently.

"Just before you stopped," he whispers. "There was a moment I— I let go. It was..."

"Reached the shadows under the stone, eh?" Varric asks with a pleased laugh. "When I stopped the first time or this time?"

"The first time, sir."

"I have silk and lead gloves and lyrice restraints." Mildly painful, the heavy titanium bands filled with roughly a hundred thin layers of silicate etched with runes (or computer code these days) that are then filled with lyrium, have the effect of making science a great deal more... solid and thus suppressing magic. They're understandably expensive and also very, very restricted, the rare handful that slip out of Clan control in China being snapped up by the Templars.

Garrett lights up, lifting his head a little. "Yes! Yes, sir. The restraints."

"Most mages loathe the things... Eager little brat, aren't you?" Still, he rises to his feet to go fetch the restraints. "How are your arms and hands? Good blood flow? This might take a few minutes."

"Yes, sir. I'm fine, sir. Thank you, sir."

Varric shakes his head, amused at— and enjoying— how eager Garrett is about all this. "Back shortly then."

When he returns, Varric doesn't waste time. Not in putting the collar around Garrett's neck, which sends a low buzzing through his entire body and a dull pressure behind his eyes that slowly starts to fade as his mana dwindles, nor in grabbing the waistband of Garrett's boxers and slipping them off him in one smooth pull. As he tosses the boxers to the side, he gives the riding crop a few test swings.

"Let's get to this then, shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

Garrett wastes no time, either; as soon as the pain sets in, he drops his control, blindly trusting the restraints to keep him in check. His head arcs back, and he lets out a low, grunting cry, letting himself drop into the feelings threatening to overwhelm him. The pain, yes — but under the pain, the pleasure, a rumbling in his chest like a bass guitar, low and distant and nearly inaudible over the violin of pain unless he cranks the music up as high as his player will go. He cries out again and again as the crop comes down, feeling every second of the pain, feeling every inch of the warm tingle in his buttocks between strikes, feeling the mounting pleasure in his groin, feeling the pride as he withstands each blow again and again. Conscious thought tapers off; he feels, he feels, he _feels_ , and there's no room with all that feeling for rational thought. _More_ , he thinks, in brief moments of surfacing as he gasps for breath. _Yes. This._

Eventually, he comes to himself, resting on his side on the bed. He lets out a low, plaintive cry, reaching out blindly for human contact, to reassure himself he's not alone.

"Shhhh," Varric croons, breathing rapid and brow beaded with sweat. He settles behind Garrett, rubbing his head with one hand and untying the other hardpoint tie with the other so Garrett can do more than just twist in place. "Hey shagua, you're right here. I'm right here. I got you. Right here. You're safe. It's okay, scene's over, you're okay."

Garrett shifts, making himself more comfortable on his side— shying away from lying on his back. He curls up close to Varric, resting against his leg, reaching to hold his hand. _Safe_ , his mind tells him, and he doesn't refute the feeling, instead basking in it, letting himself rest in the comfort of human warmth. _Safe. I'm okay. It's okay._

Varric manages to untie Garrett completely, tossing the ropes carelessly to the side to be taken care of later. Much later. Varric continues to ramble, a slow patter of reassurance and praise, though by the end, he's started slipping in random prattle about work and current events just to fill air.

Slowly, the submissive begins to come back to himself, enough to feel slightly awkward about holding a grown man's hand. He lets go, wincing a little. "Hey," he whispers, with an exhausted smile.

Varric's hand twists around to grip his wrist, his touch no longer just comforting but almost possessive. "Hey."

He smiles, then, a contented, blissful smile, for all that he didn't reach a physical climax. _His_ , he thinks, and it comforts him instead of frightening him. "Was good?" he slurs, sleepily.

"Very good. You did well, shagua," Varric says gently, using his other hand to grab a blanket. "Anywhere hurt beyond soreness? Bit out of practice."

"No," he sighs, cuddling into the blanket a little as it settles. "Jus' tired. It was good."

He shifts a bit more, looking up at Varric, and the dwarf is struck by how young and innocent his dark eyes seem, how gentle and kind his satisfied smile looks without the usual artifice. He's just a boy, really, under all the smirking and bluster. And here, in this moment, he's placing his trust in Varric. The _youth_ of his new... lover strikes Varric like a knife to the guts. He keeps his face gentle, his lips curved, but he leans in to kiss Garrett's forehead to break the eye contact. "Rest now then. Dream sweetly and rest." _Stone cracks, what am I doing?_

"Yeah," he whispers, and he gives a little sigh, eyes drifting closed. He doesn't let go of Varric, not even when he's fully asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's hit his stride with his new Dom, and solidified the nature of their relationship. But what will he do about the Nita situation? Or his mother's favorite suitor, Maribell?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: controlling family, mention of slavery, mentions of pedophilia, mentions of drug use, Mage/Templar conflict

Thankfully, Garrett is a strong young man with access to very good bruise balm and over the counter painkillers, so he not only makes it into work the next day, he's not even limping or sitting all that gingerly. Which is good, because he's still a bit behind (word choice) from yesterday's interruptions. So any further interruptions would be really inconvien—

"Ga-rry?" That's weird. Not only the stumble, but also the tone of Nita's voice. Her face might give a hint, but she's using the intercom, as today she's back in her cubicle. "You have a visitor," she adds. "She's on her way up now."

_She?_ wonders Garrett. _Bela would never visit me at work— my twin? My sister?_ "Thanks, Nita," he replies. "She give a name?"

"She did," Nita says sweetly, then disconnects. He doesn't get long to dwell, as the elevator dings to warn him, then opens to reveal... Maribell?

The short, curvy woman beams at him, her waist length blonde hair twined with pale flowers but otherwise unbound and gleaming in the light. Stepping out of the elevator car, she shifts the large wicker basket she's carrying to one hand. Given the size, she must have used both during the ride up, but it's easier to walk with it not in front of her. "Garrett," she greets him with her warm honey voice, just a hint of twang to it. "Hope ya don't mind I'm a little early for our outing, just couldn't wait," she adds, looking a touch bashful.

Garrett stands, quickly, knowing better than to remain seated when a lady arrives in the room; he wouldn't stand for just any woman, of course, Nita never gets that courtesy, but a _lady_ is different. "Maribell! To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks, crossing to her quickly to take the basket.

Maribell blinks a little, a hint of confusion clouding her eyes. She does, however, let him take the basket with a grateful smile. "Our... outing? Lunch in the park?" Her smile turns nervous. "Today _is_ Thursday, isn't it? I must confess, I'm terrible at remembering the day; I use a planner to keep me on track but that don't help much if I enter it in wrong in the first place."

"Of course I'd love to go to lunch with you," he says quickly, not wanting her to fret overmuch. "I didn't have any such thing on my calendar, but I can always make time for a lovely lady such as yourself. Let me leave a note for the boss and we'll get going." He grins at her, his charming grin, despite the fear twisting in his gut. _Varric's going to be pissed. What did— did I agree to something while drunk and forget about it? Or is this Mother's meddling?_

"Oh, you're such a dear," Maribell says with a more positive smile. She bites her lip and seems to glance around before leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. "And a flatterer too. Mother warned me about men like you: rakes and rogues," she adds in a lower, almost conspiratorial voice. "Though given your pedigree and social rank, I beleive I'm supposed to say you were just 'youthfully exuberant.' Rather exciting to be allowed to step out with a man all on my own." Witty and more clever than she lets on at first, it's still clear that Maribell has been sheltered a great deal, especially from men and anything sexual. Underneath that innocence and reserve, however, is a bright little spark of curiosity.

The scent of her perfume — light, floral, delicate — stirs something inside him, but he keeps his composure, smiling as he moves to set the basket down. He taps on the keyboard briefly, composing a quick note and flagging it non-urgent: Lunch date, back soon. Then he locks the PC, picking up the basket and smiling.

"So. You said the park? I'm afraid I got a ride into work, so if you mind the walk we can get an Uber..."

"I have a car," Maribell says brightly. "Well, it's a rental." She grins at him, delight dancing in her eyes. "Mother always takes the limo and Father shan't be here for another month; so I got a cherry red convertible. Oh it's a marvel! I'll have to trade it in for something more suitable before he arrives but in the meantime, well!" Linking arms with Garrett, Maribell rambles on about the car and her joy at being able to drive something fun here in Kirkwall. She confesses in a whisper as they walk through the lobby that she's had it up past a hundred thirty kph, seeming to thrill in knowing he won't judge her poorly for exploring past the limits her station puts on her. She doesn't seem to notice the cool glare Garrett gets from Nita on their way by, having segued into asking Garrett about what he drives by that point.

She turns out to be a good driver, for all her inexperience with real cars, neatly getting them to a nearby park. In addition to the basket of food, she also has a blanket, a shade umbrella and a small music player— which she takes care to ensure he notices is an Amell— to set the proper atmosphere for their lunch date. "I actually made the sandwiches myself," she explains, gaze dipping a little. "I'm not a very good cook, but sandwiches are simple enough I figured I could make the attempt." Roast turkey, crisp lettuce, applewood smoked bacon and some kind of garlic spread make not quite a BLT but do make a good sandwich. There's plenty more to go with, two kinds of salad, fresh fruit, cookies and a cheese platter with crackers. To drink, she has a large jug of sweet tea and a bottle of strawberry wine.

He deftly pours her the wine, but pours himself sweet tea, choosing not to comment on it. "This is lovely, thank you, Maribell. It's good to see a young lady like yourself taking an interest in cooking, I must say. So many women these days rely on _staff_ — I always say, you can't evaluate someone's work properly without learning at least the basics yourself."

"That's what father always says," she agrees. _Mother seems to think that the money we pay them deserves proper service so there's no need but..._ "And it's nice to be able to,umm, take a personal hand in important or private occasions."

_Such as this one. Damn_. He smiles, changing the topic smoothly: "I quite like the spread you've chosen. What did you say was in it?"

"Roast chicken, oven roasted with some imported Tevinter spices." She adds that last quietly. "I know I probably shouldn't but, well, they sell it openly here, just on the shelf. And, well, it's just spices, right? There can't be any... _That_ in the spices, right?"

Garrett laughs. "No, no, there's no blood magic or slavery in spices," he says, indulgently. _Of course, by giving them your money, you're enabling them anyway— but let's just not mention that little fact for the moment._ He holds out a hand, a mote of ice rolling over and under his fingers, though he doesn't look at it. "It's just got interesting flavors due to the climate."

Her breath visibly catches in her throat, her eyes widening as she stares at the mote. "That's—" She looks around rapidly, clearly worried that someone else will see. "I've never seen someone use magic, not in person. It's..." Her words trail off uncertainly.

"Beautiful?" he offers. "Enchanting?" _Evil? I didn't mean to flaunt it in front of her (sloppy) but if she breaks it off, so much the better._

She's quiet as she just stares at it for a moment. Finally, she lifts her eyes to meet his. There's a hint of fear there, yes but there's far more resolve. And— "New. It's terrifying and wonderful and _new_. I had no idea how... stifled and useless I felt at home before coming to Kirkwall." She blushes prettily but doesn't avert her eyes.

"Being told I was to be wed, to a mage, and more, to an utter _stranger_... The freedom of being here makes it worth it." She winces, then smiles quickly and adds, "you being funny, charming and kind has not hurt in the slightest either, of course. Handsome as well."

He swallows, the mote evaporating into thin air. "Maribell... I... you're a great girl, really, you are. You're clever and witty and beautiful, and charming... Everything I could want. But I'm just not ready to get married yet. If it were five, six years from now, I'd be picking out a ring in a heartbeat. But... I don't want to settle down too young. I hope you can understand that."

His words hurt, she can't mask the emotion quick enough to hide that fact. But she rallies quickly, smile returning with a waver. "We would not be wed soon of course! An engagement of less than a year would be unseemly and I could not honorably accept a ring until my majority. So that is nearly two years." She swallows, looking at him nervously. "Please... Can that not be enough time? I— only just give me a chance to.... to prove that I can... please you. That you could be happy with me."

_Two years is... Wait what??!_ He coughs. "I'm sorry, did you say you're **sixteen**???!"

Maribell blinks rapidly, startled. "I— what? No, of course not," she says indignantly.

He breathes out. "Oh. Okay. Good."

"I turned seventeen just last week," she says with a prim nod. "Alas, I was unable to host a ball, but it would be improper to do so while a guest of your mother. But certainly for my majority."

He coughs, violently. "Right. Look, I'm really sorry about this, you're a lovely woman, but I need to get back to the office. Now."

Her face falls and her lip trembles. "I- of course. My— my apologies for... for whatever offence I have given," she stammers. "Please, I— I'll do anything to m-make it up to you. Just... please."

"I— you haven't done anything wrong, I just— I can't— do you understand what the damage to my family's reputation would be if I were seen out with an underage girl? I don't know what Mother was thinking— I'd love to reconnect when you're of age, but right now I need to protect my family's image and the reputation of my father's company. I'm sorry, I truly am, but I think it's best if I summon an Uber."

He gets to his feet, hesitant— _can I pat her on the head? No, what if someone takes a snapshot?_ — before offering her a handshake.

"But— but my parents have given their permission! And the age of consent in Kirkwall is sixteen regardless, it's entirely legal," Maribell protests, rising as well. "Please, do not— please, can we not discuss this?" She sounds kind of desperate, moreso than he expected just for someone mistepping in a courtship.

He hesitates, and for a moment, in place of her hazel eyes he sees green ones: earnest, terrified, too proud to ask for help but desperate for it anyway. "Maribell... what will happen if I break off the engagement? To you, specifically?" he asks slowly.

Maribell flushes, looking away. "I... if I am not being courted by you, then I have no reason to be in Kirkwall." She swallows. "If the Amells are not offering for my hand, it will be given— given elsewhere. I— you are a stranger and the first mage I have ever met. I still used what little influence I have in my future to ensure this offer was made to you," she says quietly, taking great care with her words and tone.

He stares at her, his heart sinking. "I... alright. I need to think," he barely manages to force out. "For now... tell your mother we had a lovely time. And feel free to enjoy the sunshine. I will corroborate that we spent the whole hour together. Please excuse me."

He turns away, then, lifting his phone with one trembling hand to summon an Uber. He starts to punch in the office, but he pictures Nita's face, pictures explaining this to her, and types in another address instead.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, he makes a good call: he calls another Uber, this time to pick him up from the bar he's at, and heads for Varric's house. In the back of the car, he picks up the phone, taking a few deep breaths before he punches in Varric's number. _I hope he's not with a client right now..._

The driver to his uber glances back at Garrett. "He's already there and waiting," she says in a professional tone. "Said to bring you home if you looked sober enough to talk."

He winces, lowering the phone. "Oh. Thanks."

"All part of the service," she says cheerfully. "Rough day?" she asks after a moment.

"Something like that. I'm sober, by the way. Entirely. So thanks for checking up but you can tell the boss I'm fine."

"Oh I'm sure he's gonna check himself," she replies, still upbeat and cheerful. "He was _pisssssed_. I mean, he hides it well, great poker face and all that, but woo-boy."

"...that I went to lunch?"

"No clue! Not my business. You just seem nice— and you do look entirely sober— so I figured I'd toss you a warning."

"Thanks," he mutters. _Should have got plastered, if I'm just going to get in trouble for it either way._

The driver, sensing that he's done with words for now, mercifully goes silent and turns on the radio to some salsa station. Garrett is silent the rest of the ride home, slinking into the house with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders up. _I was looking forward to spending some downtime with Fen, but I guess that's not on the table anymore._

As he heads into the entryway, Garrett hears a faint click. "Office."

"Yes, sir," he mutters, slinking to the office, hanging his head. The thought of disobeying, of going to Fen anyway, never crosses his mind.

Varric is there, a familiar syringe and techie box on the desk before him. "Sit."

Garrett slinks to a seat, holding out his arm. He glances away, toward the wall, silent, waiting.

"Explain."

"Explain what?" he asks, still looking at the wall.

"...start from where you think relevant and proceed until you've covered what you think needs to be covered."

"I was going to call you, you know," he snaps. "You didn't have to— whatever. Go ahead and test me, I know you want to."

"Is there a reason why you don't want to explain?" Varric asks, tone even and controlled.

"Yes. Several." He sighs, closing his eyes. "I've had more than enough of people deciding my shit for me today."

Varric studies Garrett closely. "Oh?"

"I am apparently engaged," he says, bitterly. "To a girl I met once. An underaged girl I met once. Who will be sold to the highest bidder and never find freedom or happiness again if I turn her down."

Varric blinks slowly, clearly processing that series of details. "I should have had the Bitch removed a decade ago," he mutters bitterly.

"That's my _Mother_ ," he snaps. "If anyone's killing her it's me." He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "I didn't drink any. I realized I was justifying it in my head and I decided I should call you. But it didn't matter. You were already interfering."

"It does matter," Varric says quietly. _'Remove' doesn't have to mean kill._ "It matters a great deal. For one, it means I owe you an apology. So. I'm sorry for doubting you."

Garrett closes his eyes, taking another deep breath. "I told myself I'd just have a coke, that I like the atmosphere, it's comfortable. Then I told myself, you wouldn't notice if I had a beer when I finished my coke, and it's not like I'd get drunk off one. Then I thought, well, hell, a rum and coke isn't really going to affect me either. Then I thought, if I'm going to cheat, I should see if I can find some pot. Nice and relaxing, take away the stress. And then I realized I was going to cheat, that I was going to take something if I didn't stop. So I got an Uber and I went looking for Fen. I figured I'd call you, or if you were busy I'd call Lelldorin, and I'd go find Fen and talk out my problems with him, and by the time you got off work I'd have my head on straight again. But then..." He sighs. "I'm so tired of my fucking parents. I don't want you to be like them too."

Varric flinches, just a little. "I, uh, would also prefer I not remind you of your parents, given— well." He lets out a sigh. "You've been doing better. A lot better. When you left without word, then didn't come back... I should have just called."

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah." He lets it out. "Maribell stopped by, for the lunch 'I' supposedly arranged. That's when it all came out— she's seventeen. By a week. This is her first taste of freedom, and she's terrified, and I can't let her down. But she thinks we're already engaged. Mother's doing. And... I don't see a way out of this. I don't want to hurt her. And I can't tell anyone the real reason I'm refusing."

"...your mother is a leprous cunt," Varric says sagely after a moment. "Sorry." He does not sound sorry.

" _Please_ let's never speak of my mother and cunts in the same sentence again." He looks faintly ill.

"Yeah, okay, fair," he allows. "Alright. _Why_ is she terrified? You thinking she's abused or she just being dramatic?"

"I can't be certain of the abuse, she didn't bring me that far into her confidence, but... she sounds like she's preparing to be sold. She advocated for me, because she thought I was exciting and she likes Kirkwall; she's afraid of who else her mother will pick." His voice holds bitter scorn, a burning hatred far in excess of the situation's demands.

"...bit close to home that," Varric says gently. "Templar family, isn't she? Main branch of the Rutherford line, very old, very _traditional_ , even for the UP."

He nods. "Never seen a mage before, but by the look in her eyes I'd be shocked if she didn't have at least some small potential for magic."

_Meant more the part about being sold off for a marriage alliance, but yeah_. "That's not uncommon," Varric points out. "Roughly half of all humans born in the west can learn to at least sense magic and channel sparks through a staff, if not actually cast anything with a shape." _That's why the Templars stay here, rather than taking back Vatican City. What's the expression? 'Target rich environment?'_

"It's fucked up. It's _so_ fucked up. The whole Church is fucked up. The idea that, what, the Maker made me this way, wasted all this talent and good looks on an object lesson? That he made me the way I am so that I have to spend my whole life denying my talents, living in fear of what I can do? A girl like Maribell should be allowed to learn what she can do. _I_ should be allowed to learn what I can do! There's no convent option for me; I'd go mad if I had to hide from my gifts all the time."

"No objections here," Varric says soothingly. "I don't hold with demons, and blood magic is..." He pauses at Garrett's reaction. "What?"

"Blood magic, demons— that's still the church talking. There's spirits and there's demons. There's ethical blood magic and unethical. But we can't even talk about any nuance, because as soon as you say blood magic or spirits, the church gets huffy."

"Got no problem with spirits," Varric disagrees. "Met a few— hell, my therapist is a spirit healer. Devotion is a pretty good guy. But spirits are concepts given will and demons is just the name that covers the concepts that try to hurt people. So... fuck demons."

"The Church officially condemns spirit healers," he points out.

"And I'm not the Church? Fuck, I don't even worship the Maker."

"Do you know the difference between a spirit healer and an abomination?" asks Garrett, but he doesn't wait for an answer. "Branding."

"Uh, what the fuck? No. That's— no. A spirit healer is a mortal that has a partnership with a spirit whose concept is..." _What did he say exactly?_ "Whose concept resonates on a deeper than fundamental level with the mortal. An abomination is a mortal that's bonded with a spirit in any other way. The mortal warps the concept, which drives it insane because spirits have to be what they were made as and the mortal is... well, warped right back thrice over."

"And who decides what's sane for a spirit? Spirits always change when they come into contact with mortals. A little, a lot; the difference between sane and insane is whether the Church _likes_ the changes." He leans forward a bit. "Have you ever met an Abomination? Spoken to one?"

"Yes," Varric says flatly, expression closing off. "Who should you think gets to judge? Not the Church, fine, but who then?"

"Why is it so important to judge what someone _is_? Why not judge them by what they _do_? An Abomination that never hurts a soul shouldn't be persecuted. A human who murders dozens should."

"Pattern recognition and reason," Varric says with a shrug. "There have been _zero_ recorded abominations who lived out a life without hurting people. None. Ever. And yes, there might be some that went unrecorded because they isolated themselves or the like but... Is it more moral to curtain the rights of a few or to gamble with very long odds the lives and wellbeing of many?"

"Gamble," the mage says instantly. "It's not fair to compare me to the mages in Tevinter, and it's not fair to compare all abominations to the few horror stories the church keeps passing around."

"So you would rather Beth and Carver take a ninety-nine out of a hundred chance on being brutally murdered over say... having abominations monitored and maybe jailed? Or at least prevented?"

"So you would rather I and Marian be made Tranquil to protect us from being able to hurt our families?" he counters, then winces. _Actually, he might. He's a Dwarf._

"I would rather you be raised with honor and decency, so you _choose_ not to hurt people. But if your magic... If my implants were to suddenly go wild," _again_ , "and start hurting people, then I would rather die than go on like that. If there was a cure, great. Prefer to live. But not at all costs. And while I would choose death over having my implants removed— which causes significant brain damage with a typical model, much less my far more advanced one— I can understand others making the opposite choice. And they should be given that choice if it comes up."

He scowls. "This isn't just a thought experiment, Varric. I will kill myself before I let the Templar take me. I could do it, too, so long as I move before they get more than silk on me. And if they knew anything about me, they'd do it. I don't have to hurt anyone to get that treatment; it's a precaution. Because I might hurt someone. Someday. Theoretically."

"I'm aware it's not just a thought experiment— Revelations is still out there and they are not likely to just wish me well if they got the chance. So I get it, at least a bit." He takes a breath. "Look, just ask my stance on what's worrying you."

Garrett looks away. "I... Know how to perform blood magic. I am— was— close with a Spirit Healer, often called an abomination. He was going to teach me his technique, but I wasn't sure I wanted to take those last steps. Do I deserve to be made tranquil? I hurt a kid; is that enough? Hell, I stole Fen, I hurt the guys who took him. Is that enough? To destroy everything I am?"

"No," Varric says firmly. "Blood magic is addictive from what I understand— and that's from a Tevinter mage, not Templar— so that worries me. But no more than meth or blue does. Dr Geraldi is a spirit healer and I like him well enough to keep him on as my therapist. The rest of that? That had nothing to do with your magic. Mages aren't special, they should be held accountable to the same standards as anyone else. If you rob a place with a gun, jail and no more guns. If you rob with implants, jail and Faraday blockers. With magic, jail and silk gloves."

_I can overload silk._ Again, the words are on the tip of his tongue, and again he doesn't say them. Can't say them. It's not a secret, exactly. But .. it's a warning sign, and one the templar would take seriously. So instead he says, "if you don't support their methods, don't use their rhetoric."

"Rhetoric?" Varric asks mildly.

"You speak of precautions, of trying to curtail us before we can hurt someone."

Varric waves a hand back and forth. "No more than I would curtail someone with military grade hacking implants. It's not a matter of punishment. People can't help being a mage anymore than most dwarves can help having implants." Most dwarves having them installed as children on their parents' command before the dwarf reaches their fourth birthday. "But if you choose to get a gun, learn blood magic or install attack implants, then yes, I think regulation and a higher standard of behavior is fair. Templars go way over the line. I don't even agree with Circles, much less mass Tranquilization mind you."

"Blood magic wouldn't have such power if it wasn't illegal. If people could learn safely." He sighs. "This isn't the point. The point is I have to get married."

_Talk about this later (with more even tempers)._ "You don't _have_ to marry her. Or anyone."

"No, I can be an absolute cad and leave her to suffer, hurting my mother and my family, for selfish reasons," he agrees bitterly

"You don't have any obligation to enslave yourself for her or anyone else. And fu— to hell with your mother. This entire thing is her fault: if it blows up in her face and embarrasses her, then _good_."

Garrett flinches. "It's not slavery. Just marriage."

"Giving up your freedoms and rights in order to enrich another person— or family— by the use of your life and body."

"It's not—"

It's too late. He sees those eyes again, those green eyes, big and full of pain and despair and hatred, and he can't sit still. He leaps to his feet, pacing the room, hands half-curled as if it's all he can do not to make a fist. A swirl of blue lifts from his skin, settles again, collects into a mote; the ice-mote races up one arm and down the other, swirling around his hand, in between his fingers in a rhythmic, calming pattern.

Varric stays quiet for a bit, lets Garrett have space to calm himself down on his own. "Let me help," he asks after the first flurry subsides.

"Not your problem," he says softly. "I'll be alright."

"Your problem, my problem," he retorts.

He shakes his head again, the mote whirling faster around his fingers. "It's not a problem. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I just- I don't like talking about slaves."

"...Fenris?"

He shudders, flicking the mote at the wall, where it becomes a splash of ice stuck to the wall. Another forms an instant later. "Yes," he bites off. "Fenris."

"Alright. Sorry." He clears his throat. "How about we go for a run or something? Burn off some energy so we can workshop ideas about Miss Maribell?"

"A run?" He snorts. "A bike race maybe. If you had a bike." A brief pause. "Or I had a bike."

"Yes, well, those haven't worked out that well so far," Varric points out. "We could spar?"

Now Garrett pauses, turning to stare at him incredulously. "You want me. To hit you?"

" _Want_ is a strong word, but I suppose you're likely to get in some blows, yes. I'm decent at hand to hand, mostly dirty fighting."

"Magic or no magic?"

"Barrier and other enhancements are fine, no offensive spells," Varric offers. "But I get practice tonfas."

"Deal," he says, with a grin Varric can't wait to wipe off his face.

To Varric's surprise, Garrett gets more than a few hits in. Garrett's been trained in something, something his father sure as hell doesn't know much about. Something fluid and reactive, something based around lacking the upper hand and using your opponent's leverage against them. He throws Varric, more than once, before the dwarf adjusts— but Varric has skills Garrett's never seen before, either, mostly because there's nothing practiced or regimented about them. After the first time, Varric agrees to stop turning invisible though.

Slowly, Garrett seems to settle back into his skin, shedding the twitchy, restless energy, the urge to bite and snap at everything. Finally, pinned under the dwarf's weight, Garrett surprises himself with how hard he has to fight back the urge to plant an impish kiss on the older man's lips.

"...hi."

Blood pounding, breath quick, Varric stares down at him. "Hey," he replies in a husky voice

Hearing that husk, that bit of longing, pushes Garrett over the edge: he leans up and claims Varric with his mouth, urgent need pouring out of him.

Varric kisses back, hard and demanding. A low growl sounds in his throat, scant warning before the dwarf yanks Garrett's hands up above their heads. "Did I give you permission to do that?"

"No sir," says Garrett, voice husky, low, cock stirring.

Shifting around, Varric quickly removes Garrett's belt to bind his hands. Not really the best thing to use for that sort of thing, so it's more prop than restraint. That done, Varric goes back to that kiss, really taking his time with it.

Garrett pulls back when he can't stand it any longer. "Please, sir, please, fuck me, fuck me hard," he whimpers, wriggling beneath the dwarf.

Clucking his tongue, Varric shakes his head in mock disapproval. "So little patience," he murmurs. "But I suppose you've had a rough day... Hmm..."

"Dammit, fuck me already," he growls, wriggling harder.

"Tsk, tsk, shagua. Getting above yourself there," Varric purrs, shifting his weight so his hip presses against Garrett's cock. "Ask nicely or don't ask at all."

_I already did, you fucker,_ he bites back. " _Please_."

From the amused gleam in Varric's eyes, he heard it anyway. "No moving," he instructs Garrett as he slides partially of the other male. He threads the fingers of one hand through his hair, controlling his head as he kisses Garrett again. His other hand starts it's way down Garrett's body. Not fast but not slow either, it isn't too long before he's palming his cock through the layers of clothes in the way.

Garrett can't help it; his hips twitch upward, rising to try and meet Varric's hand, before he can clamp down on the instinct. _More. Harder. **Need.**_

_Bucking_. For some reason, the word springs into Varric's head and refuses to budge. _Bucking. Stallion._ "Mustang," Varric murmurs, squeezing gently. "Wild and headstrong. Fierce and proud. Foolish. Mine."

"Yours," he gasps, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward. _Your mustang. I like that._

* * *

When Garrett gets into work the next morning, he's caught off guard by the reception he gets. Having resolved things with Varric, more or less, he'd almost put his actions out of mind. So the long, speculative looks, the whispers and even pointing are a bit jarring. When he gets to the pod set aside for the people working on his project, he spots Dale exiting the room. The elf looks him over, then gives a cold sneer before walking away in the other direction.

_Great. On the outs again. I told them I was straight, what more do they want_? He sighs, already preparing himself for Nita's anger. _This is going to be a long-ass morning._

Stepping into the pod gets him a five second pause of all conversation, furtive glances and then everyone being very, very busy. Not really a 'snub' sort of vibe at least, this feels more 'center of gossip and speculation.' The only one that doesn't look up at him is Nita from her spot in the far back.

He plasters a smile on his face. "Thanks for the concern, I'm feeling better today," he says causally, heading for his project desk— in the back, near Nita's. "Hey," he says to her as he puts his stuff down.

"Mister Hawk," she says coolly. "There's an action summary for yesterday afternoon on your desk."

"Great, thanks," he chirps, and resolves to put the whole thing out of his mind. _Fuck women. If Nita wants to be pissed and act like a child, then let her._

The impulse doesn't last. He skims the report four times, none of it sinking in. Finally, losing the battle for self control, he says, "thanks for letting her up, by the way. Mother apparently set up a surprise luncheon. It was delightful. Although I did get food poisoning from the mayo, but it was worth it."

There's a long pause. "Shame," she comments in a clipped tone. She doesn't specify what part of that was a shame. "It was a surprise to you as well then?" She glances away after the question, as if annoyed she asked it.

"For what it's worth, yes," he bites off. "It seems I am not allowed to take my time with healing from my breakup, so, I suppose you'll be hearing the happy news soon."

Nita frowns, clearly running his response through her mind a few times to try and make sense of it. "I... Wait. I was referring to your girlfriend showing up at work, in front of the woman you have been, ah, vigorously flirting with. What are you..." She keeps her voice low, mouth angled away from the room, making it very difficult for anyone to listen in.

He turns to face her, his back to the room. "I like you. I like you a lot. But I'm not ready for a relationship right now. Only, my mother has gone and promised my hand, so I suppose I'm getting married." He rubs a hand over his face, taking a deep breath to stuff down the panicky trapped feeling.

Nita stares a moment, looking flabbergasted. She starts to reply, then shakes her head. She focused back on her computer and a moment later, a private chat message pops up on Garrett's screen.

**J. Singer** : I want to make sure I have this straight. You were flirting with me without intending to follow through. But you weren't doing so while engaged, at least that you realized/agreed to.

**G. Hawk** : It's complicated.

**G. Hawk** : I never agreed to get engaged for sure.

**G. Hawk** : But I originally meant it about getting together. A casual fling, not a relationship. But...

**G. Hawk** : I think I need to lay off casual sex for a while. Get my head on straight.

It takes a moment for a reply to arrive.

**J. Singer** : I see. I am disappointed but understand. Flirting is not a promise. I would have— I was upset and hurt that I thought you were trying to start something with me while with someone else. I've been cheated on and used to cheat on someone else and I do not tolerate it well. At all. It was very unpleasant to have her approach me and ask for directions to 'my intended, Garrett Amell.'

**G. Hawk** : I'm so sorry. I had no idea she was coming, or that she'd been told we were engaged. I am going to have a talk with my mother soon about this and get a better idea what's going on.

**J. Singer** : Thank you, that helps a great deal. And I am very sorry that your mother has done this to you. I can't even imagine how that must feel...

**J. Singer** : if it helps, I was the only one that heard her refer to you that way, so your cover is still safe. I think anyway. She gathered a lot of attention even before people saw her walk out on your arm. Donna has been prowling around a lot.

**G. Hawk** : thanks. It's to be expected— what's that saying about having a ton of power coming with a ton of responsibility?

**J. Singer** : Something like that :eyeroll: But marriage seems a bit beyond that... Arranged marriage seems rather dated.

**J. Singer** : sorry, not my place to speak on your family business. You might want to tell her to call you Gary. No need to feed the gossip cows anymore than they've already been fed

**G. Hawk** : I will.

**G. Hawk** : you have no idea how lucky you are

**G. Hawk** : nevermind. Forget I said anything

_You are not making the down-shift to friends easy,_ Juanita thinks to herself. _I'm such a softie for a troubled soul._

**J. Singer** : Hey, friends can share troubles with friends. And I owe you, at least a little, for cold shouldering you without waiting to talk to you even if it looked really bad :sadface:

**G. Hawk** : no, I get it. I am a shitty person sometimes.

**G. Hawk** : a lot of the time

**G. Hawk** : anyway I don't blame you for assuming the worst. Everyone does

**J. Singer** : ...

**J. Singer** : the worst part is that I thibk you honestly mean that.

**J. Singer** : *think you

**J. Singer** : You shouldn't. You've been nothing but kind and charming with me. I wouldn't have been so upset if I didn't think so much of you.

**G Hawk** : thanks

**G Hawk** : That means a lot

**G Hawk** : I've been trying to figure out— I think I have to marry Maribell. So I'm under a lot of stress lately. Hopefully you can forgive my being a bit snappish today

**G Hawk** : I really don't want to get married

**J. Singer** : the only 'have to marry' I can come up with would involve you knowing her and knowing her well, for much longer than just yesterday. Unless— her accent was southern UP. Conservative Andrastian family? Conservative enough that being alone with her was enough to 'sully' her?

**J. Singer** : >:(

**G Hawk** : No, no, it's not like that

**G Hawk** : It's just....

**G Hawk** : I mean she's all church, don't get me wrong

**G Hawk** : But it's more... she's in a rough spot. And Mother wants this marriage like nothing else. And so does her mother.

**G Hawk** : I worry about what might happen to her if I don't go through with it

**G Hawk** : ugh why am I dumping all this on you, I'm sorry

**G Hawk** : I know better. I'm sorry.

**J. Singer** : Because I'm your friend .And I want to help, even if that's just letting you vent. Do you think she needs an out? Like... Escape out?

**G Hawk** : Maybe. Not sure yet.

**G Hawk** : About the escape I mean

**G Hawk** : Maker. I'm going to end up marrying her. My mother is going to, I dont' know, drug me and drag me to the altar.

There's a soft growl from behind Garrett.

**J. Singer** : are you exaggerating? you're not, are you. Seriously? If you're really that worried about you/her then we should talk to Varric. He'll help.

**G Hawk** : I know he will. He already offered to put out a hit on her.

**G Hawk** : My mother is awful but I still love her

**G Hawk** : I am going to try talking sense into her first. Maybe I'm just picturing the worst for no reason

**J. Singer** : Good. That you've talked to him I mean. And I get you about loving her despite her bullshit— I told you about my mother, about magic? She... She was very dissatisfied with the first test results. I spent three years failing at mage exercises before I finally ran off to college a year early. But she's still my mother and as much as I hated what she did, she was trying to help in her own broken way

**G Hawk** : Are all parents just awful in their own way? Maybe that's the secret. They're all bad.

**J. Singer** : Dale's mother is a sweetheart. A bit ditzy maybe but very nice. Shit. I need to tell him I was mistaken before he finishes trapping your other chair

**J. Singer** : errr

There's a soft sigh behind him.

**J. Singer** : Yeah, I got nothing. Hard to pretend I didn't say that when you can scroll up

**G Hawk** : No worries. I'll keep an eye out.

**G Hawk** : And..

**G Hawk** : Thanks.

**G Hawk** : For uh...

**G Hawk** : For listening, I guess.

**J. Singer** : anytime, my friend. Any idea what- fuck. Bitch alert!

Glancing up, Garret spots Dinna entering the room. She spots Garrett but takes her time heading to him, stopping to chat with people on the way. Garrett closes the IM, pulling up a report and pretending to work. _Great. This is wonderful._

"Oh! Garry, surprised to see you back at work!" Dinna looks at him with a pleased smile and a gleam in her eyes that doesn't bode well.

"Yes, it turned out to be only a spot of food poisoning," he says cheerily. "Fancy seeing you here."

Dinna makes a sad noise. "Oh you poor dear! You must have such the delicate tummy— third or fourth bout of food poisoning since you started isn't it?" She reaches down to pat his arm. "And on your date with miss Rutherford no less. Poor girl was so excited about your little date."

"Yes, quite," he says with a smile. "She'd never cooked before, you see. A silly mistake I am sure."

"Oh she must be a awash with guilt, poor dear. Well, lucky you— not just such a catch like her— but having such a good relationship with the boss to be able to duck out like you do."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll take it out of my ass later," he smirks. "I wouldn't get away with it at all if I wasn't such a hard worker. But I'm sure you've seen my hours billed. Did you need something?"

Dinna's lip curls in disgust for just a second. "I'm sure. Well. I should let you get back to that hard work, mmh?" Her eyes flick to Juanita, then she goes to leave.

"Oh, don't let me stop you visiting your crush," he jokes, glancing to Nita.

Both women fix him with glares but Nita speaks faster. "Gary! Please, I just had breakfast! Don't make me picture her like— like _that_."

Dinna hisses in outrage. "How dare you! I should report the both of you for that."

"I am sure the boss would love to hear your speculation on the nature of our relationship," says Garrett coolly. "And that you came all this way to speculate on it during the workday. Are there any further questions?"

"I am delivering a report," she reports with a sniff. "Not that it's any of your concern. I just wanted to ask after your health after yesterday. So terribly sorry to have shown concern."

"Mmhmm. Bye now."

_This isn't over_ , Dinna thinks savagely as she whirls away. _The only daughter of the main Rutherford family wouldn't be with some no name office worker; so who are you really?_

* * *

Mrs Jean Rutherford was far from Garrett's favorite person. The woman was... excessive. She was large, she spoke loudly, she gestured widely with her hands, and once she had the spotlight she refused to let it go. It was difficult for him to see how she had befriended his mother; Leandra seemed smaller beside her friend, more delicate and dainty, but also more refined, more elegant, more beautiful for all her silence. Perhaps it's that simple; perhaps Jean was simply someone Lea could compare herself to and feel superior.

Or perhaps Lea simply hated Garrett and wanted him to suffer.

This was supposed to be Family Dinner Night, yet Malcolm is nowhere to be seen, and Jean has taken his place at the head of the table. Garrett is already tired of nodding and smiling by the time the soup is finished and the main dish brought out. By this time, somehow, to his horror, they've gotten on the topic of mages.

"But of course I don't _mind_ mages, little Gar-gar. The Maker created mages, after all, and when did the Maker ever make something wrong? No, no, I know you were created with your little affliction, _dar_ ling. So long as you remember your _place_ , I see no reason you can't be a good match for my little Belle."

_Fuck you,_ he thinks. "Of course."

"Oh my yes. That's why I insisted that the twins— the younger set that is— go to our Alma Mater," Leandra says airily. "Kirkwall is lovely, really, but a bit too... Permissive, if you understand me."

"Oh my, yes. Kirkwall is practically becoming _Tevinter_. Why, I have heard rumors that there is a secret _lobbying_ group here in Kirkwall that has the ear of the _Viscount_ , twisting him to propose more permissive legislation, aiming to make Lyrium use _legal_. Can you _imagine_ what the _wrong_ sort might do with _Lyrium_? Why, I never! It's such a good thing your little Gar-gar here is the right sort. A nice quiet boy, knows his place. Worships the Maker, I'm certain. Loves his mother. Such a sweet little boy, with a good head on his shoulders. Just like my little Belle— I am certain he will ensure she remains on the _right_ path. Not like the Chamberlin boy, heavens no."

_I hate you. I hate every part of this. I should do a line of coke right here in front of both of you just to shut you up,_ thinks Garrett ruthlessly. "No, of course. Mother, may I have a moment alone? There's something I need to discuss and I'm afraid I can't stay long after supper."

Leandra frowns slightly— too much in the way of facial expressions causes lines after all— and she glances at Garrett. "What on Earth do you need to do so late in the day?"

He smiles. "Just a favor for Mister Varric. It's important to cultivate good relationships, isn't it?" Not waiting for her 'no', he gets up, reaching for the empty bottle of wine. "Let's grab another bottle from the cellar while we talk, I've a vintage in mind I'm sure your friend will love."

"Garrett," Leandra protests briefly, then sighs dramatically, not wanting to argue in front of Jean. Giving her friend a long-suffering look, she says, "be glad you had girls— boys insist on having these little moments, even the most well behaved. Still, it's good that he's taking work so seriously. Bodes well for when... His father retires." Smiling apologetically, she rises to her feet.

Garrett strides purposefully down to the wine cellar, paying no mind to the fumigation curtain erected to block off the wing with the bedrooms. _What on earth possessed Mother to have the place fumigated?_ Instead, he holds the door at the bottom of the stairs for her, closing it once they're inside. "Mother... we need to talk about this marriage."

"What's to discuss? Far too early to settle any details of course," Leandra says, frowning again as something occurs to her. "I know two years is a long time but she had best still be as pure as Andraste herself for the wedding. I'll not tolerate any impropriety in this. Or any bastards."

"It's not _that_. I'm not a pedophile," he snaps. "Mother, I can't go through with this."

"What— you most certainly can! And you will!" Leandra jabs a finger at him. "She'll be nineteen on your wedding night so there's no issue."

"I'm not ready to get married," he says quietly, keeping his voice even.

She narrows her eyes at him. "And getting less ready every year. Do you realize how hard you've made finding you a match with your antics? Why do you think I had to go all the way to the UP?"

He stares at her for a moment, dumbfounded. "I almost died," he says slowly. "and your response is to get me _married_?"

There's honest fear and worry in her eyes when she replies quietly, "a good woman at your side will steady you. Keep you from taking such risks." The look fades and her mouth firms. "But I was speaking more of your... wildness. The parties, the drinking and... dalliances. I may not have the connections your _father_ does but I hear things enough."

He looks away. "I'm working on it. Going to therapy. I've gotten sober— you'll notice I didn't have any wine tonight? I'm trying. I need more time to get my shit sorted out. I can't promise myself to someone until I'm whole."

"I did notice. I have noticed you trying more to be the wonderful man I know you are inside. That's why I picked sweet little Maribell. To give you more time— two whole years— to finish settling down before it has to be done."

_It has to be done_. The words turn to ash in his mouth, the words he can't manage to speak: _getting married sounds like a death sentence. I'd rather be actually dead._

"Thanks, Mom," he sighs, hanging his head. "I— here." He picks a wine— a nice vintage, one he knows his mother enjoys— and hands it to her. "Have fun with your friend. I have to get going."

She smiles at him warmly. "That's my son," she says, raising up on top toes to kiss his cheek. "Walk me back to say goodbye to Jean. And make sure you keep your weekend open, I've gotten you tickets to a show and reservations at del Allozzos. Maribell adores candied nuts and likes cheerful flowers. Yellows and pinks."

"Yeah. Thanks, Mom."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's in a real bind: he can't seem to get out of his impending marriage to Maribel Rutherford, despite being in a secret relationship with Varric Tethras, his dad's best friend. When we last left him, he was leaving his mother's dinner party early, heartsick and miserable. Where is he going? What's he going to do now? Who can he turn to for aid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: suicidal ideation, sexual content, religious disputes within a relationship, failing relationships/divorce.
> 
> Sorry this took so long to get up; we were having some IRL problems. For Nano this year we intend to get caught up on the stockpile of first-draft chapters so it won't be so long between chapters again. Buckle in, we're a little over halfway done with this ride! -Yami

His gut feels like wriggling worms of dread, burning and twisting; there's ants under his skin, a restless, creeping sensation, and his mind keeps saying he's trapped, trapped, trapped. He needs to be moving, as fast as he can: running, fleeing, racing headlong into oblivion, out on the track with only himself and his instincts, no thoughts or obligations at all.

He checked the shed. His bikes were gone. The older ones, even the ones half-dismantled to provide parts for the newer ones. The one he'd crashed was obviously a wreck, but he'd expected there to be _something_. Now there's only tools and empty space.

So he drives his father's new Audi instead, pushing it to its limits as he races up the mountain in the dark, the rain barely illuminated by his headlights. He doesn't care that it's a twisty road, doesn't care that the road is slick; he opens the throttle to 160 km/h and rolls down the windows, his hair coming loose and whipping about the car. That was the nice thing about cars. No helmets. If he takes a tumble or hits a tree he'll go flying through the windshield, into a fate somehow less dire than marrying Maribell.

He skids to a stop, nearly missing the lookout point he'd decided on as his turnaround spot. He's sure Varric will worry soon. His tracker is sure to indicate he's done a runner. Might as well make it easy for him and stop here, where the Shirén could land his chopper when he inevitably goes overboard.

_Maybe I don't want to be caught up to._

The thought is dangerous. He knows it's connected in some mysterious way to the little white pills he's been taking every evening, the pills he's not sure are helping— and did he remember to take yesterday's dose, come to think of it?— but it doesn't feel related. It feels right somehow. If he's not caught, if he's not dragged back, if he never goes home, he won't have to marry Maribell.

He parks the car where the railing is twisted and torn away, somewhere a car must have gone over the edge. He hops out of the car, sitting on the hood, looking out at the city below. The drop isn't exactly sheer, but it's steep enough. If he got a running start...

When his phone chirps at him, he's almost expecting it. But it's the wrong ringtone for Varric. Or his family for that matter.

**[Unknown caller]** : Hey Gary, it Nita. Bit late notice but wondering if you want to join Dale, Josie and I tonight. Got a six-pack of tickets to a local band, thought you might like them. Rock infused local music with some punk to it, name's Transposed Absolution.

Garrett stares at the message in his hand for a long moment, not quite sure what to think, what to believe. Nita? Asking him out with the group? A band? It all seems so mundane, so far away from where his head's at. He's tempted to ignore the message, claim he never got it; he's tempted to say yes, to go to them, but the idea of spending the evening pretending to be fine grates at his skin, sending the ants crawling all over again.

'This isn't a good time', he types, but he stares at it, at the inadequacy of the message, and deletes it instead.

'Sure', he types, but then deletes it.

'Thanks for invit' he begins, but he doesn't even finish it before he erases that one too.

He sighs, leaning his head back, closing his eyes in exasperation as he thumps the back of his head against the windshield. "Why am I _like_ this?" he wonders aloud.

_Ask for help_. Varric's advice rattles around his brain, competing with other, worse ideas for purchase. But... he doesn't want to deal with Varric right now, or Fen. Both of them are intense, huge personalities; either of them would take charge of the situation, and Garrett can't handle one more person taking charge of his life right now.

Instead he clicks the contact, saves it in his phone, and hits dial. _Maybe she's got a minute to talk._

It takes three rings before the line clicks over. "Gary?" The voice is flat, but it's Nita's, and there's zero background noise. Implant call? "Dare I hope this is you asking for directions?"

"No, I— sorry, I should have texted— just— do you have a minute?" he asks, his voice hesitant, lacking much of the confidence— some might say arrogance— that characterizes his usual tone.

"Of course; I did reach out to you first after all. I'm slipping out of the club, I'll switch to voice shortly. Oh! Before I forget, you gave me your number, I certainly didn't abuse my HR powers to get it." A beat. "Tell Dale that when he asks."

He chuckles, but it's oddly flat. "Yeah. No problem."

He's not sure what to say. He's not sure how to begin. So instead, he offers, "I don't think I'm going to make it out there tonight," by way of beginning.

Nita sighs a little, the sound still flat. "I had figured much, given the hour. Dale sprung the tickets on us as a surprise— he's tangled with one of the band. Or perhaps staff, I'm not sure. But... I wanted to offer. I will respect your wishes on dating but I want to be friends still."

"It's not— I called because— I _do_ want to be friends. It's just. I don't think. Tonight isn't— I don't think I should be around alcohol tonight. I'm trying to stay sober."

There's a pause, a click, then Nita's actual voice answers. "Gary... Where are you? Are you with someone?" She sounds worried, faintly but warmly.

"No, I'm— I'm alone. Went for a drive, I'm halfway up the mountain." He sighs, shrugging a little. "Just... a rough night I guess."

"You and your motorcycles," Nita says with a cluck of her tongue. "You are at least wearing a helmet, no?"

"No, I borrowed my dad's car. My bikes are gone, I guess he sold them." He sighs, disappointed, not even noticing the total lack of anger. It just seems inevitable, really. Of course his bikes are gone.

"Sold them? That, ah, that seems a bit much," Nita replies slowly. "But you can at least use the money from them to get a new one. Actually— perhaps we could go shopping for one together? I can ride— horses— and would not mind learning how to ride a bike, if you were willing." She snorts suddenly, muffled laughter mixes in. "Sorry, just picturing Dale and Josie's expressions."

"Yeah," he says softly. "That might be nice." There's a pause, then, "I think... I don't think I'm going to be buying a bike for a while though. I don't think I..." He sighs. "Shit. I don't know if I'm going to make it into work tomorrow, let alone..."

Nita swallows, taking a moment to pick what she hopes are the right words. Or at least good enough ones. "You would be missed. A great deal. You have more admirers and friends at work than you realize, I think. I would miss you a great deal, my friend."

"Huh," he says, mulling that over. "I guess... I've never really had a hard time making friends, but... It's all an act, you know. The flirting, the jokes... I don't let my guard down often. Maker, I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Just— Just, sometimes I'm not sure I can do this. It's so damn hard. And there's so few people who even know I'm struggling."

_And now I'm one of them._ Nita blows out a silent breath. _Terrifying and thrilling both_ , she decides. "Well... you can talk to me. Off the clock, friend to friend. No bosses or handbook, just us." A brief pause. "We could meet up? Get coffee or, you know, just sit together and talk?"

"I— shit, I'm interrupting your night. Maybe we can get lunch tomorrow." _If I'm in._

"Blast my night," Nita snaps. Evening her tone, she adds, "I go out with them twice a week. It's fine. Talk to me."

"Okay," he says quietly. "I'm taking antidepressants and I guess maybe they're not— maybe they're not working as well as I'd like, because I am sitting on the hood of my dad's car at a rest stop looking out over Kirkwall and I keep thinking about how I have to get married and I don't want to drive back down the mountain. I don't want to..."

"That's some pretty heavy stuff," Nita says softly. In the background, Garrett hears a horn blare out. "But you don't have to carry it all yourself."

"I— I know, but... It's just... Everyone has plans for me. Everyone needs me to be someone different. I can't make everyone happy "

"What makes _you_ happy?"

"Making other people happy. Maker, Fen smiling was one of the best moments of my life. I didn't think he _could_ smile."

"And motorcycles and flirting. What else?"

"Sex. Sorry. But, I am used to a lot more sex than I've been having lately."

"You and me both," Nita replies. "Bit of a dry spell. Why can't you do any of that right now?"

"My bikes are gone. I tried driving my dad's car but it's not the same. I am not drinking, not taking anything. Not having sex. It's... Part of my rehab, I guess."

"Where on the mountain did you say you were exactly?" Nita asks innocently. "And that sounds like an awful lot to cut out at once. What's wrong with sex?"

"It's not... It's complicated," he admits. "I am about halfway up, you know the one where that trucker accident was a few months back?"

_Worrisome._ "Good view of the valley. Or the stars, if there's no clouds. What about dancing? Heavy beat, high energy, loud music."

"Not so much. I used to do martial arts though. Had a good spar yesterday, that helped. I guess I could see what the boss is up to, see if he's up for another, but... He wants things from me too."

There's a pause. "Everyone wants something. Trick is to find people that want the same thing. Or that want some you don't mind giving, who give something back that's worth more than what you give in return."

"I— it's different. Fen needed me, needed my help, but he didn't... This internship, it's part of my rehab. Varric's... I guess you could say, he's my sponsor. If I go to him, he will get protective and grumpy and order me around. Mother is planning my life behind my back. Father shouts and throws down ultimatums. I just— I can't handle that shit right now."

"Understandable. Varric seems the best of those— I still can't believe your mother is selling your hand off like it's the eighteen hundreds— but being told what to do sounds tiring, even if it's coming from a protective, caring place. But right now... I can fight. If you don't mind being hit by a girl."

"Yeah?" He sounds a bit more animated, though only a little. "Really fight or 'I took a self-defense class once' fight?"

Nita chuckles, a low, amused sound. "Really, really fight. Though the second is also true, come to think of it. HR insisted I attend despite my stating I didn't need it. The teacher asked me to not come back after the first session for morale reasons. Evidently big, bad security officers get all pouty when a woman nearly a third their mass beats them up."

"That's hot," he offers, with a wan smile. It dies a moment later. "Look, you don't have to come all the way up here. I'm fine. Really."

"Mmmh. Yes I really am. What kind of fighting do you know?" she asks, ignoring his other comment.

"Muay Thai and a bit of Akido," he says casually.

"Not bad. I know Akido myself. And Templis," Templar unarmed fighting style? Strange. "Capoeira, and FMA knife fighting," she rattles off. Then she coughs. "Ah... If you could never mention that at work..?"

"It's fine. You ever been out to Blue Lagoon?" He offers, referring not to the bar itself but to their Special Members Nights in the basement.

"Can't say that I have. Any good?"

"If you know the right people, there's fights sometimes. Fen was pretty good at them. I did okay." He shrugs. "I'd love to see you and Fen fight sometime."

Another chuckle, also amused but a little saucy too. "When you picture it, are we wearing clothing?"

"Not anymore," he jokes.

"Are you?"

"What, and let my two friends be naked alone? What do you take me for?"

"Such a gentleman," Nita says, her grin audible. "A veritable paragon of honor, compassion and charity. Also..." Headlights rake over him. "Hi."

"Fuck!" He jumps, sitting bolt upright on the hood of the car, sliding a smidge toward the edge— towards the chasm— before he regains his balance. The car isn't so much parked as driven straight up to the cliff and stopped just shy of the edge; the slick black sportscar blends in with the night, but Garrett stands out sitting on its hood. "How did you get up here so fast?" _Must have sped something fierce._

Sliding in next to him, Nita slips out of the sunshine yellow sports car— doesn't she drive a dull, grey sedan?— and waves at him. "Zooom, zooom," she offers, hanging up.

He pockets his phone, staring at her dumbfounded. He's too surprised to pull on his usual smirk; he looks like hell, pale and anxious. "Huh. Look, you didn't have to come up here, I'm really fine..."

"I didn't have to, no. Way above and beyond the demands of duty. But you're also a friend and I look after my friends. So... Wanna fight? Or we can race or head to a club or..." _Fuck in a back seat. Maker, I need to get laid_

Garrett takes a breath, then another. "Can I ask... This might be weird but... Did Varric send you here?"

Nita shakes her head. "I'm off the clock," she says quietly. "He"s texted a few times already and called once—" Her phone rings and she rolls her eyes, then pauses. "Oh, that's actually Josie." _Probably wants an explanation— or for me to return her car._ "You've clearly guessed I work for him and not just in HR but he only talked to me about you after I learned who you are. And even then, it was just to help keep that quiet and such. Us being friends, my flirting with you, that was my choice."

He nods slowly, trying to piece this all together. He's noticed a few oddities here and there, but he hadn't guessed she had some secret arrangement with Varric— _and Maker I hope it's nothing like **my** secret arrangement!_ Still, it made sense. His fear had been that she'd been paid off like the Uber driver; the meddling was probably more along the lines of "go befriend this guy" than "save his life". Garrett takes another deep breath, deciding to trust this, to trust her.

"Alright. Let's spar." Carefully, he swings his legs to the side and slides off the hood onto the gravel.

"I left a bit off my fighting resume," she warns him. She pauses, looking down at herself, then shrugs. _Tights might split but..._ "Don't read too much into this," she says half-heartedly as she slips her leather miniskirt off, leaving her in partially see through black tights and a leather halter top that matches the skirt. She tosses it in the back seat the car and saunters over to him. "Rules?"

"No magic. No crotch shots. I can heal us after if you let me." He shrugs. "I just want to stop thinking for a bit."

"I assume you've healing training?" At his nod, she smiles. "Handy— and accepted. Just avoid the small of my back. That's where my implant is. No weapons, if you're not using magic." So saying, she takes her bracelets and belt off, the belt needing a twist and clicking as it comes away from her spine. And then a pair of knives from under the back of her top.

He raised an eyebrow but doesn't ask. "Alright. Let's do this."

Garrett soon finds himself hopelessly outmatched; over the next few minutes, they learn each other, sizing each other up as an opponent. Soon, they find a rhythm: Nita finds the level she has to hold back to be just a wee bit better than Garrett, to make him try, focus, tire himself out. She only uses a blatant rogue trick once, flicking a handful of emphemeral dust into his eyes, though rather than take advantage of this to pin him, she instead smacks him on the ass. Eventually, when she puts him down, he stays down, drenched in sweat and exhausted.

"Alright. You win," he pants. "Damn. You're really something, Juanita."

Moving off his arm, she fights the urge— again— to grind against him. Or kiss him. Or... _Juanita. Ugh. Fuck it._ "Leliana. In private— absolute private— I would like it if you called me Leliana."

And there it comes: the smirk, the cocky, arrogant smirk she's used to. "Guess we both have secret identities."

A soft growling rumble sounds in her throat as she studies him. "Cocky smirk, given your condition," she whispers huskily. Leliana leans forward a little, legs splaying out under her some more so she's sitting on his arm. She leans forward some more, giving him a very revealing view, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

He looks at her, lips parting slightly, cock stirring in his jeans. _Maker. She's perfect._

Eyes half closed, the redhead leans in even further. Lips a breath away, her tongue slips out to flick against Garrett's lips before she presses in for a kiss.

He kisses back hungrily, his free hand moving up to press against her lower back, seeking her ass to cup. _Maker. It's been— I want— Maker. She's perfect._

Leliana groans softly into his mouth, pressing her hips down more to rub herself against his arm. Shifting her weight to her right arm, she blindly fumbles for the hem of his shirt and slides her hand underneath to caress his abs. _Maker yes. Now. More._

He grabs her ass, pulling her closer, closing his eyes— and sees a flash of dark eyes in a stubborn, stern face.

He pushes her up a bit, freeing his mouth. "I— Maker. I can't, Nita. Leliana. Shit. I'm sorry. I can't."

Leliana whimpers at the retreat, then growls softly. Sucking in a deep breath, she slumps down to bury her face against his neck. "Really no? Sorry, sorry. No, you already— I shouldn't have kissed you. I just— sorry." She groans again. "Move your hand or I'm going to be able to start nibbling despite my best intentions."

"Maker, I want you to— no. Shit. I'm sorry. I should— I should go. Home. I should go home." He takes a deep breath, removing his hand from her ass.

"Because you're not ready yet," Leliana reminds them both. She groans again, then forces herself upright. Her fingers stroke his belly as she pulls away. "Tights are ruined," she mutters, shivering as the chill mountain air rushes in to the space moving away creates.

"I'll buy you new ones. As thanks," he says, swallowing hard. "I really do appreciate this, Leliana."

Leliana swallows back the teasing flirtatious reply of 'want these ones in trade' before it can slip out. Taking a breath, she rises to her feet and steps back. "Yeah. I... it was good, even with the... hard stop." She glances down his body and can't stop herself from smirking. "Very hard stop."

He actually blushes a little, sitting up. "You really didn't have to come help me get my head straight. But I appreciate it. I'll get you back someday, when you need a favor. Just ask. Alright?" So saying, he rakes his hand through his hair, getting to his feet in one smooth motion. "Need a heal before I head out?" _Not that I hit you much._

"Can you cure—" _No, don't keep commenting on it, it'll make him feel bad and I don't want that_. "General ache and soreness or just injury? You're a lot stronger than I was expecting from a businessmage."

"I can ease it somewhat. Give me your hand," he offers, holding out his own. When she takes it, a blue glow stirs up around him, and she feels a soothing balm wash over her, gently easing some of the aches until it feels as though she's slept on it once or twice.

"Better?" he asks, with a lopsided grin.

"Oh yes," Leliana says, eyes wide. "That's a spirit healer technique! When you said you had training, I didn't expect _that_."

He winces. "I'm not," he says quickly. "I can't do the big stuff, not without going through an initiation ritual and I haven't done that yet. I just know a few tricks. Easing fatigue and soreness. Stuff like that."

"Ah," she says, nodding. "That makes more sense, to be honest. I couldn't imagine how you could possibly use a computer or being around Varric if you had a spirit hosted in you, not for as much time as you do."

He nods. "Yeah, no. I have a— well— I knew a guy, who was a spirit healer. He taught me some tips." He rakes his hand through his hair again. "Anyway... we should definitely get lunch this week sometime. But for now, have a good evening."

Leliana steps forward and pulls him into a hug. "Lunch sounds great. And you _need_ to find an evening you can come out with us. As a group, not a date. I... I promise to do better about, well, not grinding my cunt against your arm," she finishes with a fetching blush. "Or kissing you. Whatever."

He gives a low, throaty chuckle. "I'd appreciate that," he says, resting his forehead against her shoulder for a moment before he pulls back.

"Thanks." He gives her a shy, slightly nervous smile, and then he turns to the car, fleeing into the safety of his dad's Audi.

* * *

He doesn't bother dropping the car at home; Garrett heads straight for Varric's house, pulling into the driveway after giving his thumbprint at the gate at the edge of the property. Once he's parked, he shuts off the car, but he remains in it for a long moment, his forehead on the steering wheel.

_I'm sure he knows_ , he tells himself, thinking of the ankle band he's more than gotten used to. _He probably knows what happened, too. He has to know Nita— Leliana— came to me, or he would have called me. He's going to ask what happened. And I don't know what to tell him. I'm... I don't know how to explain this feeling. This panic. I don't know how to make any of this make sense._

Before he works up the nerve to get out of the car, there's a scrabbling outside his car, then an adorably grotesque, furry face is pressed against the window. Barkspawn moans softly in greeting, tail thumping against the ground.

Garrett smiles, popping open the door to let the dog into his lap. "Hey, boy. Good dog," he croons, ruffling Barkspawn's ears.

The mabari groans happily as he clambers half into Garrett's lap. He starts sniffing at him wildly, clearly curious about everything like normal, but the focus on Garrett's left arm is a non-typical. So is the note tucked into Barkspawn's collar.

Garrett takes the note, rubbing Barkspawn's back. "I know, I need a shower, boy," he muses, as he opens the note.

> Dinner is in the oven keeping warm.
> 
> I'm in my office. Go ahead and eat, shower, relax for a bit. We can talk when you're ready.
> 
> Thank you for coming home.

He folds the note, pressing it to his cheek gently, surprised when it comes away damp. _Varric_. Gratitude wells up in him, and he slips out of the car, taking Barkspawn back into the house with him.

He grabs some veggies, scarfing them quickly; he's not super hungry, even though he skipped most of dinner, but he knows he needs more food. He drops in to say hi to Fenris, then hits the shower, scrubbing himself thoroughly (and taking care of the last of his totally-not-a-date while he's in there). When he's dried, his hair styled, and his pajama pants pulled on, he heads into Varric's office, feeling much more himself, more relaxed. More ready to face the situation.

"Hey, boss," he says, leaning against the wall beside the door.

Varric takes a slow breath, then turns his chair around to face Garrett. His eyes rake over the younger man, searching, evaluating. "Garrett. How— how're you doing?" he asks quietly. _How can I help you (when help looks like control)?_

"Better," he says quietly. "Less... panicked. I don't know. We need to talk. I need— I need your help." His voice cracks, and he hangs his head, ashamed.

"You have it." Just that. Simple. Direct. Heart-felt.

"I don't know what to do. I'm going to be married," he says quietly, and his hands twitch a little. "I'd rather be dead. Please. I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose my job, Nita, Fen— I don't want to lose my freedom. I think— I think I have to tell my family about you and me."

Varric winces a little. "I... I kind of figured we would eventually, if this worked. Hiding it would only last for so long. As for Miss Rutherford... Do you think she would be willing to lie to her parents? Because if she's more worried about staying here and not being married to worse, then— then maybe we bring her in. Tell her about us, pretend to court her. Then when she turns eighteen, she can tell her parents to fuck off and you two split up as friends. Just an idea. We can come up with more ideas. I just— I just want to point out you have options. That marrying her isn't the only path in front of you."

"Maybe," he says quietly. "But Mother will... if I don't marry her, as soon as I don't marry her, she'll set me up with someone else. She's determined to see me wed and I can't— I can't convince her otherwise."

"So... so we stall with the girl, if she's willing. She won't set you up if she thinks you're set up. And when you split up with her, you can tell her about us. Hell, I don't care if she finds out right now, I just know you want to help Miss Rutherford." He winces a little. "And yeah, it's easy to accept an idea to stall that explanation to Mal."

"I think... I don't know if I can— things with Dad aren't exactly _good_ right now, but I don't know if... if things with him get worse and things with Mother get worse and... Let's not tell Dad," he lands on, quietly. "But... if we're bringing people into confidence... I feel like I ought to tell Juanita."

"He... yeah, he's not doing so great right now," Varric allows. "For a few reasons, not just you. But okay. We can tell your friends. Fenris probably assumes already, so telling Juanita is fine." He hesitates. "Have you talked to her about— That is, has she told you..."

"I don't think I know everything, but I've gathered she's... that Juanita isn't her real name," he says slowly. "And that she has skills that you don't learn in HR. I asked if you sent her and she told me no, you didn't. Thank you for that, by the way. I really didn't need you freaking out on me while I was thinking."

"I did turn on the audio for a bit but... I trust— did she tell you her name? It's weird, thinking of her as mousy little Juanita."

He nods. "She said to call her Leliana when we're alone."

"Good. I trust her, she's one of my best." He smiles a little. "IA: internal investigations and such. I met her when she was a teen, back when I was still building SureStone. Absolutely solid. Anyway, I trusted her to look after you. And, well, 'don't be like the Bitch' is one of my guiding life principles so..."

"I want— Maker, if I wasn't with you, I'd be all over her in a hot minute. She's amazing. I don't want her to think— I told her I'm getting over a breakup, but it feels slimy, lying to her. I want her to know it's not that I'm not into her, it's that I'm taken."

"...it would be... easier to be with her," Varric observes carefully "Female, near your age, not your boss, not friends with your dad... Willing to fuck you."

"It would," he admits.

Varric nods slowly, just waiting. Letting Garrett decide.

Garrett shrugs. "I don't do easy."

"Do you want to?"

"Maker, yes. But you don't want me to. So I won't."

"Do you want to try easy this time? Instead."

"Not instead of you. I don't— I don't want to give you up," he whispers. "What... the way you make me feel, it... it's not like anything I've felt before. I want to keep exploring. And I want you. I... Leliana is great, but I can _trust_ you. The only way I could be with Leliana is if you're okay with it."

Varric's eyes widen for a moment and he swallows. "...I... see. Sort of. No, not really. You want to... date both of us?"

He looks away. "I don't... really go steady very often," he admits. "I was with Anders and Fenris both. Why can't I be with you and Leliana and Fen? I mean, you get final say. You're my— my whatever. So if you don't want to, that's fine. And if she ever makes you uncomfortable, I can stop. But... I'd be up for it."

"Dom," Varric supplies absently, brow furrowed as he thinks over what Garrett is suggesting. "That... could be... The idea merits thought. And I support us bringing her into our confidence at the very least."

He nods. "Alright. We'll go to lunch tomorrow and I'll let her know."

"Good. Let me know if... if she has any questions or... whatever," he says slowly. "And take a long lunch, let her know I cleared it."

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "I think she'll be glad to see me at work tomorrow."

"I was damn glad to see you tonight," Varric says somberly.

He lowers his gaze. "I'm sorry I scared you," he says quietly.

"You did. But you reached out to someone and... and that helps. A lot."

He smiles, briefly. "It was so stupid — she texted me at exactly the right time. I ended up calling her— sorry, I'm sure you know that. I... I don't know where that came from. I just... I needed to get away and... that seemed like... away. Enough."

"You need more outlets. Places you can decompress and... enjoy yourself. Safe ones but ones you want, that you're willing to seek out when you're feeling shitty."

"Dad got rid of my old bikes. And I knew I couldn't go to a bar to unwind, you'd be mad. I couldn't go out fighting. I can't just go to Fen and pick a fight and end up fucking. So I went for a drive but it didn't help. When Nita showed up, we had a spar, which helped some."

"Just a spar?" Varric asks, then winces, regretting the question.

He looks away. "A spar and a kiss. But I shut it down. I wanted— more. But I didn't, I wouldn't do that to you."

"Given— given how hot our spar was..." Varric shrugs. "And you're used to, ah, more than you're getting, aren't you?"

He nods. "A lot more. But it's fine. I need to— I need to learn how to... not be the way I was."

"Self-discipline is great. Wonderful. But you showed you can summon it when you need it tonight. If you and Leliana are... amenable to moving to that stage, then go for it. Outside of work obviously."

He glances back at Varric, searching his face. "You're sure?"

"Yes. And... same with drinking. Alcohol I mean. No getting drunk unless I— or Leliana— are around, but have a beer, sip some wine."

"Varric, I..." He chews his bottom lip. "You don't have to do this. I know you're not... you're not like Mother. Not really. I trust you. If you want me to wait, I'll wait. If you want me sober, I'll stay sober."

"And I want to trust you. More, I want you to show I'm right to trust you. Not for me, but for you."

He takes another deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Varric... am I... doing okay? At, at this?" he asks, quietly.

"Yes," Varric says with granite certainty. "You've had a stumble or two, but you keep standing up, keep trying. And you're walking forward all the time."

He nods, then, and then a second time. "I should get some sleep," he says, after a moment of silence. "I have a long day tomorrow. What with the therapy appointment I'm sure you already moved up to tomorrow evening."

Varric coughs, then lifts his chin. "No," he denies.

"It's fine," he laughs. "Saves me the trouble."

"He wouldn't let me change it," Varric mutters sourly. "Said he'd call you tomorrow to discuss things."

"That's fine. I'll call in the morning. Sleep well, Varric."

"Good night mustang mine," Varric murmurs.

Garrett blushes, beaming at Varric as he ducks out the door.

* * *

**M Hawke** : Varric, is my Audi actually at your house or did my son figure out where the gps tracker's hidden?

**NA82A$II** : Your Audi is actually at my house.

That's it. No explanation, nothing else. Just 'yes.'

**M Hawke** : Is my _son_ at your house?

**NA82A$II** : Technically no.

Twenty seconds later:

**NA82A$II** : He's fooling around with the dogs out back.

**M Hawke** : Ass.

**M Hawke** : How'd dinner go tonight? I couldn't make it. Spending the night at the office.

**NA82A$II** : As well as could be expected?

**NA82A$II** : Hence the borrowing of the car. G. needed to vent a little, so he went for a drive to clear his head.

**NA82A$II** : Ended up chatting and working out with a friend from work, then came home.

**NA82A$II** : He's not dealing with the whole impending nuptials thing well, understandably enough.

Mal erases what he had typed, staring at the last message.

**M Hawke** : Impending what???

**NA82A$II** : What? No, what the fuck? How do you not know that—

**NA82A$II** : The Bitch is selling your son for dynastical ambitions.

**M Hawke** : Over my dead body!

**M Hawke** : To whom?

**M Hawke** : When???

**M Hawke** : When was this announced??!!

**M Hawke** : I'm going to murder her.

**M Hawke** : Be a dear and erase this from my server so when they find her body I can fake being sad.

**NA82A$II** : Why would this go into a server?

**NA82A$II** : Anyway; doubt she'd mind making this over your dead body. Maribell Rutherford of Carolina, UP (nice girl really, Garrett would be fine being her friend tbh) Two years from now (engagement in a year, when she's of age and then marriage the next year). Hasn't been publicly yet (like a week or so ago to Garrett). Let me know when 'you were with me all evening/morning/whenever.

**M Hawke** : Fuck

**M Hawke** : Double fuck

**M Hawke** : I want a divorce

**M Hawke** : I'll see what I can do to get out of it. But it's going to cost $$$$$

**NA82A$II** : Sending you a file with what I know about her and her family.

**NA82A$II** : Garrett is... semi-willing. He honestly seems to think Bitch is looking out for his best interests. And... he does like the girl. Just doesn't want to marry her or anyone for that matter. At least not in the next five years (did you catch the part where she's only two months older than Beth?)

**M Hawke** : I'm familiar with the family

**M Hawke** : They're fucking evangelicals, Var

**M Hawke** : I'm not letting my son marry into the church

**M Hawke** : Andraste's granite balls

**NA82A$II** : The girl herself is fine with magic. Not sure how far that goes, but... she seems excited to be out from under her family's direct control. And worried about who else she'd be sold to if she doesn't get with G.

**M Hawke** : Not my boy, that's the important part

**M Hawke** : Maker

There's a few moments pause before the next message comes:

**M Hawke** : Am I a bad father? I'm a bad father, aren't I.

There's a pause before the reply too.

**NA82A$II** : You're a distant father. You love them, but you don't know them as well as you should.

**NA82A$II** : No. They don't know you as well as they need to. When things get rough, with work or Bitch, you fade away. G. loves you, he does. But he doesn't trust you to be there for him or to help. At least, not help in a way that helps, if that makes any sense.

**M Hawke** : Sometimes I wonder if I _can_ help him

**M Hawke** : Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, marrying Lea. Having them at all. I thought I was doing good, providing for them, making sure they had a world where they could grow up safe. But...

**M Hawke** : When the shit hits the fan, I have less power to fix it than I'd have liked

**NA82A$II** : I think that's something most people realize when it's the worst time to do so.

Varric winces after hitting send. _Fuck. I feel like scum, saying all this when I'm..._

**NA82A$II** : Marrying her got you them. Each one of them deserves to be alive. Garrett has some problems, no disputing that but he's really pulling it together. Won't be easy, but he's doing it.

There's another long pause before the next message.

**M Hawke** : How are you coping with all this?

**NA82A$II** : Me? Things are good. Better and better really. Why?

**M Hawke** : Nothing. Probably imagining it. Just— if there's anything I can do to help, I owe you bigtime. Let me know.

_Ouch,_ Varric thinks with a frown.

**NA82A$II** : You don't owe me a thing.

**M Hawke** : You saved my son's life. I owe you everything.

_Yeah, well, I also whipped and jerked him off so..._

**NA82A$II** : He's a friend. A good one. So are you.

**NA82A$II** : You're the one that taught me that friends can't owe each other more than the price of a coffee.

**M Hawke** : Still. If you need anything, even just someone to listen while you vent, I'm here for you.

**NA82A$II** : Alright. I'll keep that in mind. You going to talk to Bitch today?

**M Hawke** : Nah. It's late. I'll talk to her tomorrow.

**M Hawke** : Get some rest.

**NA82A$II** : Call me afterwards. Please.

**M Hawke** : Sure thing. Why?

**NA82A$II** : Because you and Garrett are annoyingly alike in how you deal with emotions (bottle up and self-destruct)

**M Hawke** : Hah! Maybe he's my son after all

**M Hawke** : No, sorry, that's crass

**M Hawke** : I'm not self-destructing. I can't. My children need me

**M Hawke** : I'm just morbid. Well, it's nearly midnight and I've been drinking alone in my tower office, it's no wonder I'm feeling morbid.

**NA82A$II** : Bottle up and self-destruct. Do I need to take away all your booze and keys, create a meal plan and lecture you repeatedly too? I'm running out of guest rooms.

**M Hawke** : You already have my favorite sportscar

**M Hawke** : Tell him I want it back, by the way

**M Hawke** : Just because I took the Coup to work doesn't mean I don't prefer the Audi on weekends

**M Hawke** : And besides, Lea put me on a meal planning app like two years ago. She said I'd put on too much weight.

**NA82A$II** : Yes, but you _like_ me.

**NA82A$II** : And my meals have taste in them.

**NA82A$II** : Anyway, yeah, I'll have your car run over tomorrow.

**NA82A$II** : Just so you can get over your initial blast, I'm going to get him a new bike tomorrow. Not a racing bike, not yet but a bike. The freedom of it is something he needs.

**M Hawke** : Thank you for the thoughtful gift. I'd been urging to practice my Crushing Prison again. I wonder how small I can make it, do you think?

**M Hawke** : $50 says it'll fit in a tin can when I'm done.

**NA82A$II** : remember this?

**NA82A$II** : **NA82A$II** : But he doesn't trust you to be there for him or to help. At least, not help in a way that helps, if that makes any sense.

**NA82A$II** : that's why

**M Hawke** : He can't have a bike. He's not responsible enough for one.

**M Hawke** : He can have a car if he wants one

**M Hawke** : But until he stops racing them, he can't have a bike.

**NA82A$II** : did you miss the part where I said not a racing bike? Cars can go just as if not faster but it's a different feel entirely

**M Hawke** : Cars have seatbelts. I don't care that he's driving fast, I care that he's reckless and he's going to get himself killed

**M Hawke** : It's like how you wouldn't give Lea a gun if she went off her meds

**M Hawke** : It's a safety precaution

**NA82A$II** : M, he needs an outlet. Bikes, drugs, fighting or abusive boyfriends- we've taken all of it.

Varric types and then deletes a post. Then pauses.

**NA82A$II** : Also, I would, in fact, give her a gun. Bad example

**NA82A$II** : Besides, if he wants to hurt himself, we can't stop him without hurting him first. and I know damn well you of all would never take that step

**M Hawke** : Can't he pick up a sport like everyone else?

**M Hawke** : I just can't stand to see him like this.

A brief pause, during which the typing indicator lights up, vanishes, lights up again. The advantage of Varric's implants is he never triggers the indicator; Mal is probably using his phone instead.

**M Hawke** : Should he be in a hospital? Or a facility? Some kind of rehab? Am I doing the wrong thing keeping him at home?

**NA82A$II** : He's healing. He is. I know it's hard, given that you don't see the small victories, just the big setbacks, but he is getting better.

**NA82A$II** : And yes, we're working on healthier outlets too. Racing— on a track— is statistically safer than rugby or boxing.

Typing. Erasing. Typing. It takes longer this time, nearly enough for Varric to wonder if Mal fell asleep on his keyboard. Finally, he gets up his courage to send:

**M Hawke** : Did he take a dive? When he was at the track with you?

**NA82A$II** : No. No, from what I saw, what I've gotten from him, no. He got a sip of freedom and wanted it so badly that it went down the wrong pipe. Careless but not planned.

**M Hawke** : Thank the Maker

**M Hawke** : Come up with some reasonable safety precautions. Something that might help prevent that from happening again.

**M Hawke** : He can have a bike for track races only, with safety in mind.

**NA82A$II** : Mal, he's twenty-two. If he wants, he can take up rocket racing. We can only make him do what he allows us.

**NA82A$II** : Nice steady bike to get to and from work, with riding gear. That goes well, maybe we arrange for him borrow a racing bike at a track.

**M Hawke** : I won't really crush his bike.

**M Hawke** : Again.

**M Hawke** : I just don't want to see my baby boy get hurt.

**M Hawke** : Have a good night, Var. We'll talk tomorrow.

**NA82A$II** : I know. This is why I warned you now. I totally get the urge to bludgeon him into being safe and smart.

**NA82A$II** : Night M. Remember to call after your talk.

* * *

"Lunch today? I got permission to take a long one since the boss is meeting a client," asks Garrett, leaning against Juanita's desk the next morning.

And so, a few hours later, they both get into Mal's Audi, Garrett taking the chance to drive them to get sandwiches at some tiny hole-in-the-wall place downtown. It's not a great neighborhood, not in the least, but they get their sandwiches to go and he drives them up to eat at a picnic table in the park, under the trees he'd admired with Fen a few short months prior.

Juanita keeps it light during the drive, but she keeps glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. And she's firmly Juanita, her edgier, more passionate mannerisms neatly hidden beneath her mild HR rank-and-file worker persona. Which, Garrett realizes now that he's paying attention, includes a faintly Hispanic accent to cover up the not French but close to French accent she had last night.

As they settle in at the picnic table, Garrett unwraps his sandwich but doesn't raise it to his lips yet. "I have a confession to make," he begins, without much of a segue. "I haven't been entirely honest with you. But I want to be, and I'd like to come clean, if that's alright. This is stuff that's very, very confidential, however, so if you'd rather not become involved..."

Juanita tenses slightly, then reaches up to brush her hair with her fingers. Which just so happens to provide an excuse to move her head around, so she can survey the environment around them. "Wait a moment," she murmurs, eyes going to a soft focus. A moment later, Garrett hears a soft buzzing then nothing. "Alright. Keep your voice low, and try to hide your lips every so often, but most tech eavesdropping should be covered."

"Thanks," he says quietly. "It's probably not... _that_ bad— but I appreciate your discretion."

He takes a deep breath, glancing down at the table, only half to hide his lips. "You recall how I told you last night that Varric is... something like my sponsor? That he's making me get clean? I didn't have permission then to tell you the truth, but I do now. He's not my sponsor, he's my Dom, my... he controls my life. He's forcing me to get clean, and part of that was breaking off all my sexual relationships."

Juanita stares at him blankly, then Leliana narrows her eyes. "Explain," she demands flatly.

"It's— complicated," he says slowly. "But it's... I don't make good decisions. I make really, _really_ dumb decisions. So instead of going to rehab or something else intensive like that, I've become a— a submissive. I do as I'm ordered, and he makes the decisions. It's... it's all consensual, it's just.. unorthodox. Um, but the first thing he did was make me get sober, and split me up with my secret boyfriend. I've been living with him, he has an app that tells me what I can and can't eat, stuff like that. It's a huge secret, my father doesn't even know the details."

Leliana holds up a hand. "Garrett... Are you telling me that the owner and CEO of our company, the best friend of your father, is cutting you off from all of your friends, isolating you from your family, restricting your access to material goods, forcing you to live with him and even dictating what you eat?"

He winces. "Technically. But it's really, _really_ not like that. I prefer to think of it as, one of my closest friends, who's known me since I was a little boy, saved my life multiple times, and is protecting me from my own dumbass self, with a side order of kinky sex shit." After a pause, he adds, "and, not all my friends. He likes you."

"That's... I don't know if that makes me feel better about this or worse about myself," Leliana mutters, rubbing at her temple. "Give examples please? What friends does he not approve of?" _Please be the man I thought you were, dammit._

"The ones that got me into Blue, or meth," he says quietly. "The ones I was doing MMA with, or the one I was with when I crashed my bike— I don't know if you know, we paid off so much of the damage, but I almost killed myself and a little boy with that accident. I'm a mess, Nita, a real fuck-up. I do so much better with him."

Leliana hisses softly, reaching over to take his hand in hers. "Have you talked to someone about that?" she asks quietly.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "He's got me sober, and I'm talking to a therapist. I'm on some medication now, that should help as well." He glances up briefly, before lowering his eyes again. "But— that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"That's not— there's more?" Leliana asks weakly, mulling this over even as she listens to his reply. _Alright, this still sound ripe for abuse but... Varric could have had me any way he wanted and he never so much as hinted at it, even when I tried to offer. Could be just gay but... I don't know. Best to stay involved and watch, I suppose. Just need to figure out how to—_

"Not... _more_ so much. I told him what happened, last night. And what... what I wish happened. He says I've been doing better lately. Better enough that... if I want... He knows you, and he trusts you. He thinks you're good for me. He says I don't need to hold back, if I still— if you still want to pursue something, knowing what the deal is. Knowing that, if he says I have to break it off, I break it off, no questions asked. I trust that he won't do something like that unless it's necessary for my recovery. But I don't know how much you trust him."

"Wait," Leliana says, free hand coming up again. "Are you saying that he's... giving you a good behavior reward and... letting you fuck me?" _That's kind of hot. No! Focus_. "Date me? Friends with bennies? What?" _Well, you wanted a way to get closer to him— and also his dick, so— bad hormones! No!_

"I don't... really date," he admits. "And certainly not exclusive, given... well. But friends with benefits sounds nice."

Leliana purses her lips. "I can..." She blows out a breath, thinking this over. "I've never done that before, being un-exclusive. At least, not on purpose," she mutters, thinking of the two exes that cheated on her. "But..." She studies him carefully. "I would want dates. I like dressing up and going out with my lovers. Doesn't always have to be romantic, though I do like that, but just... couple-y stuff. Is... is he expecting to... be involved with this? Me, us?"

Garrett shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. And I think— blast. We can't really go on dates, not out on the town, because of the Maker-damned situation with my mother and Maribell. I've got to pretend to be engaged to her for a while to stall and figure out if she needs help and how to get it to her. But otherwise I'd be up for it. Maybe I could cook for you?"

"...that's fair," Leliana says slowly. "So stay-in dates, group outings and maybe some off-island trips?" _Be interesting to see if you're allowed to go off-island with just me._

"With Varric's okay. I have some other restrictions, but I'll let you know if our plans brush up against them. I... I've also been given permission to drink— if I'm with you." He darts his eyes up with a quick smile. "He trusts you to keep me from making dumb decisions."

_Also interesting. Hmmm._ "Alright. I'm willing to... try," she finds herself saying. This sounds... complicated and messy but... Between her honest interest and attraction to him and her desire to be sure Garrett is in a healthy place, well, her doubts don't have a chance at stopping her. "So... so how does this work?"

He chuckles. "I have no idea. I never know what the fuck I'm doing anymore. But it's a nice day and we have sandwiches and my dad's car and we can do whatever we want for another..." He checks his phone. "Seventy minutes or so."

Leliana stares at him for a long moment. "Okay, normally I'd make you work a lot harder than this but while Juanita is shy, demure and damn near virginal, I want to fuck your brains out," she says bluntly. "My place is about ten minutes from here and five from work. That leaves us about forty five to _spar_. You'll owe me a movie, dancing and whatever later."

"Perfect."

* * *

Garrett ends up scarfing down his sandwich on the drive back from Leliana's place, not wanting to get in trouble for skipping food. It's hard, because he can't stop grinning the whole way.

* * *

Malcolm brings Leandra flowers when he heads home at lunchtime. Not her favorite flowers— not calla lillies— but roses, expensive ones: deep crimson blooms, mixed with white roses, for a blood-on-snow effect. The bouquet is large, three dozen roses, and they are arranged in a vase, each bud nearly all the way open.

Leandra is outside in the back when he gets home, reading by the pool. Not that she's going to go swimming outside of her twice weekly exercise program. She's wearing a ruffled sundress, and the pool is set up with loungers, sun shades and a sound system, so it's great for laying out regardless of anything else. Her little chow chow, Garvin, is snoozing next to her and the first to notice Malcolm arriving. With a grunt, the dog quickly clambers into the lounger to seek protection, the weasley little beast pretending to be afraid of him just like it does with anyone but Gamlen and Leandra. And, strangely, Carver, though he's still not friendly with the young man.

Looking up from her book, Leandra frowns slightly, then adopts a wary smile instead as she spots the flowers. _Is he... attempting to apologize? Or at least call for a truce? Hmmm. Perhaps..._ "Malcolm," she says in greeting, petting Garvin absently.

"Leandra." His voice is cool as he attempts to keep his temper in check, but he offers her the flowers anyway, hoping to disguise some of his rage. "These are for you— I know you love roses, and I thought they'd look nice with your new dresser." The old one having had an 'accident' while being moved.

While Leandra is no fool, nor unskilled at politics and manipulation, she's also very, very skilled at believing what she wants to believe. And the idea that Malcolm is coming to her begging is very desirable to her right now. "Very kind of you," she says, her smile gaining an appreciative slant. "And you even brought a vase? Just on the table there, I'll ring a servant down shortly to take them up to my boudiour. They're very nice."

Cold anger settles into his veins as he sets the roses down. "We need to talk," he says, swallowing as much of it as he can.

"Of course," she says indulgently, waving at one of the other chairs. "Please, sit. No sense in being uncomfortable," _while you beg_ , she finishes silently.

Malcolm lowers himself into a chair. _She's not hearing me again— but maybe I can use that to my advantage._ "I hear you're arranging an engagement for our eldest."

Her eyes narrow, this being well off the script she had expected. Or allowed herself to expect. "Well, yes. Of course. He's far too... wild to take care of such things himself, so a mother's guidance is just the thing for him."

"I disagree," he says, simply. "A mother's love— or a woman's— is too indulgent, too permissive. He needs a father's stern hand on his rudder, and I've been overseeing his rehabilitation for just that reason. What would it take to put off the engagement?"

"It's none of your concern. Go back to your labs and invent something. There's no need for you confusing the children by suddenly pretending to care about them now," she snaps, nettled not just by his stance but the disruption to the dream of how she'd wanted this talk to go.

"Have you spoken with Garrett about it? Asked how he feels?" he asks, leaning forward a bit. _Technically, neither have I._

"Of course I have! Just a few days ago in fact. He has doubts, of course; he's been so long running wild, the idea of settling down is intimidating, but he's a good son and he'll adjust. Maribell is an absolute sweetheart, just the sort of girl he needs to smooth out his rough edges."

"Just as you used to be? Just as I was?" He sighs. "You can't fix our marriage by forcing your son into one of his own."

She scoffs. "What marriage?" she asks bitterly. "You got tired of me before the twins were even born. I won't let that happen to my son. Love doesn't last, he needs a compatible wife and to understand that family comes first."

"Lea," he says, and swallows. _Dammit. She's not going to let this drop; she's going to punish Garrett for my sins. Well, there's one last ace I have in the hole. Maybe... it's a long shot but..._ "If you're feeling particularly... maternal," he says slowly. "I could have the vasectomy reversed."

She shoots him a look of utter loathing, lip curling up in a sneer. "I never want you to touch me again," she says flatly. "I won't be made a fool by you, Malcolm No-Name."

He stands. "Fine. But you can't force Garrett to do your bidding. He's of age, he has a right to choose his own bride. Some day you will end up alone with your bitterness, and I won't even be sorry."

"I'm not _forcing_ him," she snaps at him. "I've explained what his duty is, and what path he should take to best fill it. For _his_ sake, not just the family's. Your inventions might have brought the Amells great fortune but _you_ have nearly ruined us."

"How," he snaps. "What have I ever done to hurt my family? You're the one cheating— you're the one putting his legitimacy at risk. What happens if that gets out, Leandra? You think that won't hurt him?"

"How dare you?" she hisses at him, quickly looking around. "You're the one making such— such _vile_ accusations! Just go back to your labs and leave my family alone."

" _Your_ family," he says bitterly. "I've never loved another woman the way I loved you. I've never fucked anyone but you since the day we met. Everything I sacrificed was for you, and the children. And now in the end of things I find out it was never real— you never were faithful to begin with, and you'll take even the children from me, poison them as you did me."

He turns, then. "I won't trouble you any longer, Miss Amell. Enjoy your roses and your lover."

* * *

It's nearly half an hour later when Varric gets the phone call he was expecting, and Mal doesn't waste time with pleasantries.

"I want the test results," he says, as soon as he hears the line click.

"Are you sure? What would it change?" Varric replies after a bare second's hesitation of his own.

"Dammit! Is he my son or not?!" Malcolm roars, tempted to throw the phone across the room. A moment later, he sinks into his chair, choking back a sob.

"You know damn well he's your son, Mal," Varric says gently.

"She's taken _everything_ ," he chokes out. "Even the children."

"You still have him," Varric says softly. "But you need to start reaching out properly. Don't try to overcompensate by being all authoritarian. Just... talk to them. And _listen_. Be there for them. And you still have your work, your friends. Most of them," he admits, knowing more than a few are really Leandra's friends.

"I have you," he admits. "I have my lab— I'm upgrading the cot to a real bed. She's taken the house. She's conveniently arranged for the younger children to be away at school. And she's got Garrett wrapped around her finger. Chased Marian away. She's made a fool of me since the very beginning. They're not mine, the older set. I know they're not. I—" He chokes off, wiping at his eyes. "Dammit."

"They're yours, Mal," Varric says quietly, eyes closing as he leans back on his chair. "I checked three times, just to be absolutely sure for you. Garrett is your son, by law, blood, spirit and stupidity, he's your boy." _I don't think I'll ever— no. No, that gets buried as best I can do (Carver is his son too, blood be damned. Beth too)._

Mal's shoulders slump. "At least there's that," he whispers. "At least he has something of me, even if I've never been half the father he needed."

"Clear your schedule for next week," Varric says suddenly. "As much of it as you can. Go on a trip with him. Take him sailing or camping or just island hop and get away for a bit. Don't worry about work, Bitch or even his troubles. Just... spend time with him."

"Will he go for it?" he asks, quietly. "I can't— Varric, if he doesn't want me... I'll step back, if he doesn't. I'll let go."

"I think he will. If you ask as a dad wanting to get to know his son, not as a father wanting to... control his idiot son or— He can't bring himself to disappoint you or Bitch, but he's... He's getting close to hating her for this marriage thing, even if he won't admit it. Don't try and tell him what to do. Don't push him. Talk. Listen. Ask questions, offer suggestions. He loves you Mal. He's so damn scared of disappointing the people he loves."

"...I could use a trip myself," he says slowly. "I'm sorry. This whole Lea thing is... it's ripping me apart. I utterly failed to get her to call off the wedding. She— it's really, truly over."

"Yeah. Yeah, I was afraid that... yeah." Varric thinks a moment. "You want to come over for dinner? I can ask Garrett to go out with a friend or— or you can hang out with both of us. Whichever." _I doubt he'd mind another 'long lunch' if Leliana is willing. Or he can just hang out in Fenris's room._

"No. I'm having furniture delivered. But I'll set up a trip. Maybe take the yacht."

"See? Totally your kid," Varric says wryly.

He gives a bitter laugh. "You just want him out of your hair for the week," he teases.

"Surprisingly... no," Varric admits. "It's... nice, having someone else around. And we get along pretty well." _Ease back_. "Just remember to be discreet about your travel plans."

"Maker, yes," he agrees. "The last thing I need is Leandra in a huff about the boat." He takes a deep breath. "I should let you get back to your day. But— thank you."

"Hey," Varric begins, then rethinks a dismissive reply. "You're welcome Mal. I'm sorry that— that things worked out this way."

"Yeah," he replies. "Me too."

* * *

Garrett can't stop rambling at Varric over the next few days about how excited he is for a real vacation. He arranges things to be handled in his absence; not even Dinna's cold smirk gets under his skin, as he happily tells her how tan he'll be when she sees him in the office next. They're going fishing, ostensibly, though he's bringing some magic texts to see if he can't learn a few new tricks from his father while he's gone. _International waters are the best place to play with blood magic, after all._

One last chore to get through before they can leave: his date with Maribell. Saturday evening, he dresses up in a tux to take her to the play his mother picked out, a bouquet of pink-and-yellow flowers in one hand, a smile on his face that's less fake than usual. _A few more hours, then I can finish packing and head to the boat. Sleep on the boat overnight and we'll head out first thing in the morning, all the better to get fishing._

He doesn't have to fake the catch in his breath when he sees her emerge from the limousine. _Maker, but she's a beautiful woman. Not half the talent or fire that Leliana has, but she'll make someone a wonderful bride and a sweet, gentle mother some day. Just so long as it's not me._

_Thank you Maker, Blessed is Your name_. Until she saw him, Maribell had been convinced that he wasn't going to be here. That he'd decided she was... that courting her was too much work. That she was too immature, too simple and uninteresting for someone like him. That she'd have to go home and marry one of her father's friends, probably Governor Wilson. _He's here. He came. He's even smiling. And wearing a tux, a nice one. Oh! And flowers!_ Her smile broadens, then dims just a hair. _The flowers mother thinks are my favorite. Oh well. He's trying, at least enough to find out what I like as best he can._

She reaches up to brush a lock of hair back behind her ear, then offers a shy wave. She has to pause a moment to ensure her dress has settled, the shimmering folds of sky blue fabric flowing down her long legs and creating a minor train behind her. The neckline is very modest of course, but there's only so much a normal dress can do to hide her bosom from being noticed— Garrett had good reason to have never even considered that she could be over half a decade younger than him. "Hello Garrett. I'm glad you were able to get away from work today," she says softly, eyes lowered as is proper. She's on much better behavior today, as her mother had sent her with a driver instead of letting her do it herself.

"Of course. Anything for my betrothed," he says, though his smile dims a little as he does; it clearly costs him something. He offers her the flowers and his arm, escorting her inside. "I selected a box, so that we might have some privacy; I do wish to get to know you better, my dear."

She pauses a moment, then nods slowly. "They are... open air, correct?" she asks carefully, voice pitching up a little as if to ensure someone hears her question and his answer.

"Of course. We can have a private conversation without your honor being in any way impaired," he assures her. "I use them for business discussions frequently."

Relaxing, she offers him an even warmer smile, then slips her arm through his. "Thank you for your consideration and care. That sounds perfect. Shall we then?"

He escorts her to the box, gently settling her in her seat before taking his own. He calls for champagne from the server, who delivers it and leaves them; he notes with some pleasure that her escort remains in the lobby, leaving them to speak privately.

As he pours, he says quietly, "I've decided to play along, to give us time to work out a better plan. But there are things you need to know in the meantime."

"Play along?" she repeats, looking confused. "Oh!" She lowers her head, then whispers, "so you'll— you'll agree to marry me?" She sounds desperately hopeful, her brown eyes wide and pleading.

"I... Maribell. I still _can't_ marry you. But it's a year until we can be formally engaged. I can last that long, give you a real taste of Kirkwall. Give you time to come up with a better plan, someone you can settle on or, or some way to get away from your family. Alright?"

The hope in her eyes dims but doesn't fade. _A year. A year of respite. If— if I fail... It'll be worse. I'll be older and soiled. My reputation will be made less, which will limit my options even more. But..._ "Can I try?" she asks quietly. "To— to convince you. If... you are just as kind and charming I as had heard. This just proves it. So— so if I can convince you, get you to fall for me then..."

"You can try," he says quietly. "But.. I should disclose..." _I can't believe I'm about to say this. I can't believe I'm going with this lie. But... it's karma, really, isn't it? At this point?_ "I'm gay." He takes a deep breath. "I'm gay, and I'm in a relationship with an older man."

"...what?" Maribell asks blankly, pushing away understanding. _What does that mean? He can't..._ "Gay? Like... you mean happy right?" She knows he doesn't but asks anyway.

"I— I like men, Maribell. I have sex with men. I... I haven't told my mother yet. But I'm in a relationship and... he makes me happy."

"But... But the Maker— Marriage is between male and female, like the Maker and His Bride," she protests. "You _can't_. You're not _allowed_."

_Fuck. Right._ "Ye-es, I'm aware," he says slowly. "That's why it's a _secret_."

"You can't keep secrets from the _Maker_ ," she hisses, looking like she's having a panic attack.

"What— no, no, no, you see, I can't _marry_ my lover, that's obviously silly," he tries to smooth over. "Obviously I have to marry a _woman_ , you know, with, babies and such— it's just, I'd hate for you to be stuck with someone who can't make you happy, since you're such a sweet girl. Please calm down, you're going to make a scene."

"I can't— I can't even— you're having relations with—"

"It's fine, you'd like him. He's not a mage, even— he's Shirén, that's like the opposite of a mage," he adds.

"A— a dwarf— he's not even _Andrastian_?!"

"Uh." _Fuck_. "I'm trying to teach him?"

"No, I can't— I cannot be—" Maribel rises to her feet, head shaking in a slow rhythm. "No. I have to— I have to go," she babbles, breathing quick and rapid as she backs away from him. _Too much. This is too much. Fake engagements. Homosexuality with a heathen. Mother pressuring me, that detachment of Templar moving into the house and their questions and demands. All this magic everywhere, self-studying for school, no friends, Father's threats, I— I can't— I can't do this, I was a fool to think—_

"Wait, Maribell, please—" he says, standing quickly and grabbing for her arm so she won't flee.

She shies away from him, stumbling for the exit to the box. Garrett follows after, worried not just about her but about what she might say or do now that she knows something that can really damage him. She bursts out into the hall, then stumbles, the heel of her shoe catching on the thick carpet. Without thinking, he grabs for her again, this time catching her and keeping her from falling down the short flight of steps. Unfortunately for him, she's still panicking and lets out a shriek at the touch.

He barely gets the chance to let go of her before someone is shoving him away. Maribel gets scooped up by a man in chain mail, wearing a— _fuck_. A Templar tabard. Even as that registers, Garrett feels blunt metal prongs jab him in the side a split second before his entire body seizes under the effects of an overcharged stun gun. Templars being Templars— ie, brutish thugs— he's clubbed on the back of the head immediately after, sending him into the silent dark.

The last thing he hears is someone saying that 'Merry Death will be pleased.'


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's been taken by the Templar just before he was scheduled to go out on a fishing trip with his father. Can Malcolm and Varric get him back before anything serious happens?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Kidnapping, missing children, implied or offscreen torture, unethical experimentation

As Malcolm sits on the boat, working at his laptop, he glances up idly, noticing a commotion down the docks a ways. _Weird — I wonder what the Templar are loading onto their boat this time of night?_ He doesn't give it a second thought, working on the blueprints he's saved to his hard drive for his pet project.

Ten minutes later, as the Templar boat pulls out of the harbor, his phone rings. "Malcolm speaking," he says, calmly. _Blocked number. Must be Garrett telling me he's running late._

"Tell me Garrett is with you," Varric says without preamble.

He jumps to his feet, moving to the porthole quickly to peek out at the dock again. "No. Don't see him on the dock either."

"I'm on my way. Keep a lookout. His tracker just went offline, shortly after going out into the water."

Mal's intestines turn to ice. "Shit. Varric, there's a boat out here, a big aircraft carrier— and I saw Templar going into it."

A long pause. "Well... shite."

"No, not 'well shite'— that's my _son_ , Varric! I'm going after him. I can't wait for you."

"Of course not just— what the fuck do you think you can do? Lecture them?" Varric snaps. "I can be there in fifteen. Have a strike team there in forty. Stay right the _fuck_ where you are."

"I'm a _mage_ , I can do _something_."

"You're a _researcher_. Grab a camera, do recon from your boat. Do _not_ go near them, do you understand me?!"

"They're pulling away from the dock, Varric, if I don't give chase—"

"If you _do_ give chance, they will, at best, sink your damn boat. Like as not, they'll just capture you too. And then what?"

"Then I just have to find Garrett and get us both free," he says, but he sounds significantly less gung-ho than he was a moment ago.

"Mal, they don't want _him_. They want you. They want the excuse, the _chance_ , to Tranquil you." _And then ask you a few careful questions about phones..._

"Better me than him." Still, he sounds sullen now, resigned.

"Right, because they're just going to give him back after?" he asks sharply. "Damnit Mal, take a deep breath and turn your fucking brain back on."

"I know," he says bitterly. "But Varric... you've never been in their hands before. I have."

"No, not their hands, no," Varric reminds him gently, just a hint of stress on the pronoun. "Mal... we're figure this out. Alright? We'll get our Garrett back and salt the earth with their bones."

_Our Garrett. How different would it be if he **were** ours? Mine and Varric's?_ "Yeah. I'll keep an eye out. Maybe I can get them up on the yacht radar before you get here."

"Good plan. Stay. **Put**. I'm on my way." With that, the connection cuts off.

* * *

Before Varric can get down the hall to the front door, he's stopped by a figure stepping out of the guestroom. "I'm going with you," says the elf, without any preamble.

Varric slows but doesn't stop, studying him. Without saying a word, he snaps mini-B up and fires at bolt. Fenris shifts to the side, using minimal energy to get out of the way. "I'm coming. With you."

"Turn off my security system, the first layer," Varric demands.

A moment later, the deed is done; Fenris' eyes remain narrowed, but he gazes at Varric dispassionately.

"What weapons or other gear do you need? Can you use?" Varric corrects himself, resuming full speed towards the backyard. Already, Fenris can hear the sound of a chopper approaching.

"Clubs, knives, guns." He pats the gun tucked into his back pocket, safety on. "A sat-link."

"Message me with modes, material, heft and such. Be as picky as you like, I don't give a shit about cost right now, and if you skimp out of pride I will skin you alive."

"Tch." An instant later, his messenger floods with links to specs, products. "It's for Garrett. I won't skimp."

Sixteen minutes later, Varric, Fenris and Gerav (the pilot) all land a short distance from the harbor. A curvy redhead in a sports car meets them there with a very _swishy_ looking elf man. They also have a crate in the truck filled with things that would get all of them at least five years in jail. Back-up and supplies gained, they start for the harbor to met up with Mal.

* * *

Mal's pacing the deck when they arrive; he begins weighing anchor even as they're loading onto the boat, ready to set sail as soon as they finish. "I've got them on radar, we'll be able to tail them. Not sure how we'll get in, but we can at least stay on their asses."

"Don," Varric says crisply. The elf nods, moving to the center of the boat.

"If you have tech, power it down, this is fuck hard in the best of times for something this big," the elf says cheerfully. Sitting down, he starts to sway and chant in a mix-mash of elven and Iroquois then glow faintly.

Seeing people looking, the redheaded woman offers a tight smile. "It's not invisibility but it's close enough that it should work in the dark if we're careful." _And lucky. Luck is always a factor._

"Mal, you learn how to fight or shoot yet?" demands Varric.

"Been practicing at the range." Mal shrugs. "Not very good yet. What can I do?" he asks, shutting down his laptop.

"You're not gonna like it, but you're on getaway duty then. You're the best sailor we have and the worst fighter. Don'll be here keeping our boat hidden, you keep it ready to get us the fuck out of here."

Mal takes a deep breath, but nods, a single curt nod. "Right. Got it."

"I gather Gerald and I are on point then?" the redhead asks brightly, getting a nod. "And new guy?"

"I go where I'm told," 'new guy' says, curtly, eyeing Malcolm with a wary grimace.

"F-rank is an excellent hand-to-hand combatant, a good shot and our best hacker," Varric says crisply. "We ready?"

"Don needs one more minute," the only female present says after a glance "Call me Lily by the way."

"Sure." 'Frank' doesn't bother memorizing the alias. Why? It's sure to be fake.

Shortly after, the boat shimmers, then grows misty. Hazy. Lily explains it's hard to notice from the outside, and they get on their way. A basic plan is quickly tossed together, Varric sketching it out for everyone and assigning roles and tasks with more detail than before. A Templar Floating Bastion is... not really something they're at all ready to break into. Attempting to get to Garrett right now is a fool's dream, a desire demon's offering. Instead... they're going to be clever. Methodical. Underhanded even.

_Why does 'clever' look like 'sitting in a room while my son is tortured'?_ Malcolm can't stand it any longer; he heads out from the server room where Fenris and Varric are hard at work, heading up to the deck to get some fresh air. Don and Lily are up there, he knows, and they're total strangers, but if he's around his best friend he's sure to gum up the works with his anxiety, so he instead takes his pacing to the deck. He can't see the boat they're chasing; they're far enough back from it, running quiet, that the big carrier is a dark smudge against dark clouds at night without lights on. But he fancies he can see it anyway.

_My son is out there. What are they doing to him? Are they already performing the Rite? Are they hurting him, to get information about me? Maker. I am the worst father of all time. How did I let this happen? Right under my nose?_

"Mister Hawke," a faintly accented voice murmurs to his right. His slightly more practiced ear is able to identify the accent when Garrett's could not: Quebec, one of the very French areas. "Do you mind giving me a hand?" Lily asks in a soft, soothing voice rather at odds with her leathers and tactical harness, the guns slung on her back and on her thigh, the short swords at her waist.

"Sure, of course." While the tone is even, his words are faster than normal, his hand twitching faintly. "What do you need?"

"Ready checks on our equipment. You said you know the basics of shooting, so I assume you know how to check and clear a gun? I am doing so as well, but it should be done by at least two sets of eyes and Gerald, who normally helps, is busy going through ship registrations to confirm the Templar do not have other ships in port."

"Yes," he says, moving toward where they left the equipment. He works quickly, but he double-checks everything to compensate, making him no faster than normal; he just seems twitchier, constantly in motion as he works. Still, having something to do seems to take the edge off his anxiety, and it gives him something to think about that isn't his son, what they might be doing to him.

"It is a still night out at least, with little moon thanks to the clouds. That is a blessing," Lily comments after a minute or two of nervous silence.

"Yes," he says, taking a deep breath. "I can only pray we catch up quickly."

Lily bites her lip. "Unless we are very lucky, we will not be getting him back tonight," she reminds him of their plans. "Very lucky."

"I know," he bites off. "I agree with Varric's plan. But. I can't help but— well. Are you religious?"

"I believe in the Maker, though I often disagree with the Divine," Lily replies after a moment.

"I used to feel much the same," he says, lifting a scope to peep through it. "But after the Circle, I doubted. And after having children, I lost faith. What father could turn his back on his creation so thoroughly? What loving Maker could abandon us for making mistakes?"

"It's a hard thought to believe past," Lily acknowledges with a wan smile. "As a girl, I was convinced that the world knew evil because the Maker was on His honeymoon— given the scope of His existence, a two thousand year long honeymoon seems reasonable. But that was the fancy of a little girl with a new stepfather and a mother that no longer had time for her. Nowadays..." She trails off, looking up at the moon. "I still have faith He has a plan. That it will make sense one day."

"Do you have children?" he asks quietly.

Lily looks startled then shakes her head. _I'm twenty-five..._

"There is nothing my son could do that would make me love him one jot less," he says softly, looking out over the water. "And he's done quite a lot. It makes me fear for his safety, as I do now. It makes me frustrated and angry. But I could never abandon him as the Maker supposedly has us. I simply couldn't do it."

Her lips curve a little. "Garrett does have a way about him..." She clears her throat. "But perhaps He hasn't. Turned away from us, that is. What if He's doing his best? The ruination of the Golden City... The church always speaks of it as just an offense, about humanity's hubris. But what if the City was important? Vital even. And the Maker is trying to look after us even as He tries desperately to fix the tool He requires to do that very thing."

"Possible," he suggests. "But... I struggle to understand how a being with so much power could fail so spectacularly to keep his people safe. Unless he truly is as bigoted as the Church— unless my magic, my elven grandmother, are enough to make him reject my family. To make us deserve to be tormented."

"I've seen too many humans without magic suffering for it to be a simple case of bigotry. Or even a complex case of bigotry. Devout and faithful suffer too. And happy blood mages for that matter. No, I find it easier to believe that He is simply not all powerful. Just because He was capable of making us all, does not mean He is capable of everything and anything."

"If he saves my son, if he provides some miracle, I'd gladly change my mind," says Malcolm, his voice low and dangerous.

"I want him back too," Lily says softly, reaching over to grip Mal's hand. "No-one deserves this but Gary— Garrett less than most."

He takes her hand, but he also turns his attention to Lily. "You know my son?"

_Oops_. Lily manages to not blush but she does have to glance away. "Ahh. Yes. We're friends, these last few months."

He studies her a long moment, then nods. "If Varric approves of you, you won't be one of the friends leading him astray. So thank you. He needs trustworthy friends."

"More than I realized he did," Lily murmurs, shaking his head. _Should I.._? "We're— He's a good man. Troubled and struggling but who isn't these days?"

"Struggling far more than I realized only a few months ago," he admits. "I've been... concerned. Very concerned. And now this, I..." He rubs a hand across his face, taking a deep breath. "I tried to stop this, but I failed."

"He's getting better everyday. And we'll get him back," Lily says firmly.

"We will. We'll have to." He takes a deep breath. "I survived the Circle. He can survive this."

"We're all survivors here, I think," Lily observes. She might not know 'Frank's' story, but that flavor of wary alertness doesn't come from even the most intense training. _Varric is almost the same way._

"Quite," he says softly. "It still shouldn't have to happen."

"It shouldn't," Lily agrees. "But a part of me is sometimes glad it did happen to me— if I hadn't had to struggle to survive, I wouldn't be who I am. I wouldn't be strong enough to help now."

"Perhaps," he allows. "But Garrett's life hasn't been easy of late."

"No, it really hasn't," Lily agrees with a sigh. "Idiot man that he is," she adds fondly. "He's lucky he's so damned cute and funny, because his pick-up game is seriously lacking when it's not just a fling." _Andraste's breath, girl, Mal is his father. Ummm_. "That is to say..."

Malcolm chuckles, though his eyes remain creased with worry. "He doesn't get that from me," he says. "I used to be quite the charmer before I married."

"Oh he can be charming," Lily says, relaxing a little. "Very charming, witty, funny and entertaining. He just sucks at explaining things. His explanation of his relationship with Varric, about his, ah, rehab program sounded like a mix between cult and Lifetime movie. In retrospect, he was nervous, which is kind of adorable."

"Really? And what did he say?" he asks, too casually. _What on Earth?_

"The diet thing, being cut off from his old friends, no booze or bikes and such— nothing that bad really, it was more just _how_ he phrased it," Lily explains, not hinting at all at the sex side of things. As Varric is his boss, she's not about to breathe a _word_ about the two being lovers. Way too much trouble.

"Ah," he says, understanding. "I will confess I let my temper get the better of me, more than once. We could have sold his bike before I unleashed my temper on it. Now, well... it may serve as an art piece? It's very portable."

Lily snorts out a laugh. "Portable, hmmm? I mean, motorcycles normally are but I suspect you... enhanced that particular aspect?"

"Oh yes. It will fit nicely inside a bookbag now." He grins, looking much like his son in that moment.

Lily grins back at him, clearly amused. "Well, I hope you don't do the same to his Audi, I'm rather fond of it," she says, shaking his head.

"That's _my_ Audi, and I want it back," he grumbles.

"Oh." _Now_ Lily can't stop herself from blushing.

He waves a hand. "He can keep it, if it means he comes back safe. But I was a little irked to find it missing."

"He can be a little, ah, entitled at times," Lily allows, making a note to have the Audi cleaned. Professionally cleaned.

"Well, I did destroy his bike. And sell the others," Malcolm admits. "But he could have taken my Nissan instead of my Audi."

Lily snorts. "No he couldn't," she says with amusement.

"And why's that?"

"Because I would bet the Audi is the fastest, _sexiest_ car he had to pick from," Lily says with a smirk. _Maker knows he needed something to brighten the fog he was in at the time..._

"Sure. Easily. The Audi's my baby," he says, smiling faintly. "He knew it— maybe he was angry at me for not being at family dinner?"

"Given how it went..." Lily shrugs. "I doubt he thought about it, but perhaps in the back of his mind?"

The smile fades. "I did try, you know. I offered Leandra things I thought she wanted, in exchange for calling off the engagement. I don't want my son marrying into the Church. It seemed to have too much risk of... well, this."

"Understandable," Lily says quietly. "Which is a shame— from what Garrett says, the girl seemed nice. Now I wonder if she was lying the whole time and he too kind to realize it. He is... he wishes to help those in need, to please people, so much that it can be easy to use that."

_He does?_ "We were to leave on a trip tonight," he says quietly. "So we could get re-acquainted. It feels sometimes like I barely know him at all anymore."

"I know," Lily says, lips curving in a sad smile. "He was very excited about it. Nervous, but excited. It... it meant a lot to him, that you would block out a whole week to spend time with just him." She gives him a slightly challenging look. "It was just about him, right? Not a business trip on the side?"

"Entirely," he agrees. "I have been hard on him lately. I wanted to have some time to remind him that I love him, and that I'm here for him. Time to just bond and relax together."

Leliana offers him a much warmer, more honest smile then. " _Good_. That sounds like exactly what you both need. Just no more than a week; we'd miss him too." _A few days after a few years is not nearly enough._

Malcolm nods. "I've been... distracted, lately. Things happening that have taken me away from the children. I regret that."

"Want a friendly ear?" Lily offers kindly.

"I wouldn't mind, but it's stuff that shouldn't get back to Garrett," he says regretfully. "Perhaps another time."

"Ah," Lily says with a nod. "Well, perhaps when you get back from your week with Garrett— which will happen- we'll grab Varric and go out for drinks." She hesitates, then adds, "You'll have to call me Juanita or Nita though."

"Sounds like a plan." He smiles, then, raking a hand through his hair. "This scope seems in order," he adds, getting back to work.

* * *

There's a constant humming at the edge of Fenris's senses. He hates it.

It's not really a sound, nor is it a sight, or a feeling. But it's a low hum, something just outside his reach, and yet constantly present, invisible, lurking, tempting him, calling to him, singing to him. _No, not singing_ , he decides; singing is how mages describe the call of lyrium, and it's definitely not the case of lyrium doing it. He's been around lyrium plenty. It doesn't call to him, not like this.

It's distracting. Very distracting. His implants keep chugging away, trying various exploits, probing the machinery they're close to, but he can't analyze the results fast enough, because he keeps being distracted by this infernal _hum_. Granted, he's still faster than Varric— he's better at finding exploits, while the dwarf is better at exploiting them. But he could be faster. He could be _better_. Garrett could be suffering and here he is distracted by "that infernal _humming_ ," he doesn't realize he growls.

"Tuning," Varric corrects him absently. "Like a fork or..." Varric goes silent, slowly turning to study Fenris. It's jarring, suddenly _looking_ at things with his eyes, instead of feeling/reading his way through programing code. The Templar aren't dwarves, don't have the innate feel for tech the way one born to it, blood and stone deep, does, but they're rich, determined and willing to devote themselves to the study. As such, their carrier ships are crammed with the shite, loaded port to starboard and back again with wireless access points, servers, integrated lighting and sensors, the works. It acts as an anti-magic zone, above and beyond the actual purpose of each bit of tech, which is of course rather desirable for the Templar. This particular ship also has some heavy-duty firewalls, security nodes, encryption and even signal jammers— good stuff too, but nothing that should be _this_ hard to even start chipping at. But he'd been off his game, distracted by... something.

"Yes, _that_ ," growls the elf. "What _is_ that? It's distracting." And sounds aren't usually this distracting, he doesn't add. _It's more interesting than what I'm doing— which is a problem, given Garrett's safety depends on what I'm doing. Why is it so gods-be-damned fascinating? Why can't I get my mind off that Maker-damned noise?!_

"Not sure," Varric says carefully. "But... tell me if you can't hear it or it changes otherwise," he orders, then starts pulling back, starts going into safe-mode. _Never heard it before now (hacked Templar shite before) new variable is (never hacked while in a relationship, never— jackass) Fernis here._

Something untenses in Fenris, some stress flowing out of his shoulders, his hands. "Better," he grunts, his hands moving across the air like a keyboard that doesn't exist.

"It's you," Varric says bluntly. "Or us rather. Some kind of... feedback or something."

"Great," he growls. "Now the blasted things not only react badly to mages, but dwarves as well?" A pause. "I've worked in the same room as dwarves before. It's never done this."

"Were those dwarves also subjected to enforced experimental implantation by the same people as you?" Varric points out dryly.

His hands twitch as the barb strikes home. "Great. I'll do my best to block it out, then."

"Any idea what it's about?" Varric asks as he resumes his attempts to reach out to the ship. _Yup, there it is again, just as strong. Maybe stronger, like an itch after you notice it._

"No," he growls. "A flaw, perhaps. It's distracting. It wants my attention." He scowls, knowing that's wrong, knowing that a _hum_ can't _want_ anything, but it somehow does— it feels right, that it wants his focus. That it needs his attention. That he should turn to it, embrace it, resolve it, before he goes any further. It's _irritating_ , not having what it wants. It feels wrong, like a persistent itch under the skin. He needs to fix it, needs to—

He wrenches his thoughts free, realizing he's stopped typing. "Dammit. We don't have time for this."

"Then let's get it done with," Varric murmurs, trying to focus on the tuning fork sound that isn't quite humming and isn't quite chiming. Closing his eyes, he starts to hum along with the feeling, trying to figure out how to make it vary in pitch or... intensity. Whatever.

"What?" he growls, but it's too late; the humming, the chiming, the tuning grows louder, more insistent, and he can't focus, he can't think, it's right there in his head. It needs him. It beckons to him. If he'd only open up, if he'd only let someone in, he could—

Fenris shuts down his implants, _hard_. He hisses with pain as the malfunctioning one sends a shock through his body, but he doesn't care; he's hit the emergency shutoff to the master switch, the breaker that is designed to trip if he's being attacked and they would overload. He winces, his vision dimming somewhat, his body feeling heavy and sluggish.

"Fuck," Varric curses, feeling like his brain just had the same shutter-jolt you get when you take a step into ground that's just a inch lower than you thought it was. "What did you _do_?"

"What did _you_ do?" he snaps. "It suddenly intensified, like something was trying to take control. I hit the hard stop."

"I think I was trying to send out a handshake signal but..." He frowns, rubbing his head. "Felt... backwards. Or like finding out you had, I don't know, a chat program you'd never noticed before."

"I don't care to be enslaved today," he snarls.

Varric stares at Fenris for a moment. "The fuck?" he asks politely.

"There's _something_ in my _head_ and it wants me to give in to it, let it do something I don't know. Something to do with you. It wanted access and control I'm not ready to give." _How do I know that?_

"Well like I said, it felt like I was sending out a handshake. So... presumably, this whatever, this vibration signal is some kind of cue or guide to user networking," Varric says, trying to feel his way through this carefully.

"I don't want you in my head, _Dwarf_."

"Fine, you can come in mine," Varric snaps. _More room and better organized I'm sure anyway._

"That sounds no less repulsive." He shudders, looking away. "We need to focus on Garrett."

"Well... computers work better networked," Varric observes carefully, recalling how much 'success' they've been having so far. Without a hardpoint access to use, staying undetected has made their progress basically zero.

"I am not a machine," he growls.

"No, but our implants are and you know damn well what I'm hinting at," Varric snaps.

"A machine with access to my _mind_. I would rather you keep out."

"Garrett," is all Varric says, voice low and just shy of pleading.

Fenris's scowl fades, and for a moment, his face crumples; he looks young, younger than Garrett, and his green eyes are wide and frightened. He covers his face with a hand; when he lowers it, he is composed again, if subdued. "Alright. I owe him enough to try."

The humming picks up again, softer, further away, though increasing in volume and urgency as Fenris's systems come back online.

Varric sags a little, then takes in a deep breath. "Thank you," he says softly, eyes closing again as he focuses. _Alright... now how do I— reach out to guide him over. Or whatever words make sense for (what feels as natural/primal as breathing) this shit... I can sense something (someone) there, just a little bit removed; if I push, I could maybe force (unpleasant thought) a connection. it feels like the exact inverse of what Fenris (asshole) did to me when he broke in._

He doesn't have to. Fenris opens up, accepting the handshake as he closes his eyes, sinking into the sound of the hum. All at once, there's a sense of things fitting together like a puzzle piece, and Varric has access to a whole second system. It's not like a normal networking handshake; it's more like he remoted into a machine, giving him root access and diagnostics much the same as he gets for his own systems. His diagnostic programs rush out, taking stock of the new systems according to their standing orders.

Fenris opens his eyes, and Varric can see his own face. He can see Fenris still; they don't make a congruent picture, but if he focuses, he can see clearly through Fenris' eyes, or clearly through his own, or he can try to wrap his mind around both, but it's harder, more strenuous on his mind. It refuses to consolidate into a single picture; his mind isn't made to do that.

"Did it work?" He hears Fenris's voice twice over: once the normal way, and once slightly oddly, distorted faintly by Fenris's eardrums.

"And eyes close again," Varric says, then shudders at the doubled sound of his own voice. _Okay, that's really odd. And kind of cool (never admit that)_. Almost absently, Varric directs his programs to focus on damaged parts so he can get working on creating workarounds and compensating. "Yes. Works great." _Fucking weird. Wait. ~You getting this? Fenris?~_

He jumps as the subvocal sending reaches his eardrums clear as speech: synthesized speech, but speech nonetheless. "Yes," he says aloud. "And it's creepy."

Varric's diagnostics come up first— taking longer than usual, perhaps due to the unfamiliarity of the system? They lay out Fenris' implants for him:

\- A cranial chip, in good working order, plugged directly between the hemispheres of his brain, just where Varric's is. There's an intake port at the base of the skull, but this design is physically identical, though it has different capabilities: a complex set of firmware, much like his was when he first got free, with some parts working well and others reporting malfunctions. A signature of their designs, then, perhaps.

\- A chip at the top of the spine, one that connects to the nervous system. It is malfunctioning, badly; it has sustained actual damage somehow, and is sending erratic electrical pulses along his nervous system. It's designed as a weapon against machines, to shut them down with an electromagnetic pulse, but who knows what it will do now? Absently, Varric cues his debugger programs to start running senarios.

\- A chip wired directly into his cerebellum, a black box that reports all systems go in the primary system and also the secondary system in his hippocampus. There's nothing much his diagnostics can report on other than that it's working properly.

\- A chip that's missing. It's meant to be plugged into the intake port, just like the other two cranial chips, but... perhaps it was never installed?

Four chips is insane for a eldwa, let alone an _elf_ ; a chip the size and complexity of Varric's primary chip is too much to contemplate putting in someone like Leliana. Small wonder he goes through so much lyrium, even with one missing.

~Not the creepiest thing I've ever done with tech.~ A pause. ~Close though. Wish we'd done this earlier. Got a full system report, would have been really useful for helping you get back on your feet faster. Still... Give me a minute to do a software update, and then we can get back to breaking into the Templar ship.~

_Some of this stuff— Well it's clearly just a newer version (hmm, stealing that bit there) of the stuff that I started with. But honestly? Who the fuck do they have writing their programs (monkeys)? I have interns that can do better than some of this (admittedly, some of it is brilliant, but much is bog standard uninspired and some is pure dross)._

"An update. Are you sure it's safe?" asks the elf.

A window pops open in Varric's hud: a warning, indicating Fenris' heart rate is spiking. Neat. Apparently he can get all sorts of information, mostly about Fenris' physical condition. According to his implants, his heart rate normally hovers around 90 bpm; that's high, but not too high. Likely that's due to his pain levels fluctuating on the day to day.

Fenris closes his eyes, shivering as he takes a few deep breaths, lowering his heart rate again. Varric finds a switch he can toggle, one that draws Fenris' HUD over his vision, letting Varric see what Fenris was working on: the complex set of windows his implants are injecting into his visual cortex to indicate his hacking attempts. Oh, neat, that's how he's so good at it: one of the windows is a constant stream of information from some sort of hacking software, interfacing with the satlink and online databases of exploits to do intrusion attempts automatically.

There's another switch Varric finds. But his diagnostics tell him that mode is unavailable. Which is probably good, because it's labelled something that translates to Full Control Mode.

~Yes, perfectly safe. Also, good news! Garrett got you out before they finished. Looks like the last chip wasn't even installed. Not just not programed or finished but entirely missing. Specifically, the Puppet Override chip. So. Not only can I not control your body, neither can anyone else in Revelations.~ _And holy stone, dainty nature gods and cuckolding miser god alike be praised for that. I am aware I'm a control freak (fetish levels in fact) but that's just wrong. As he rambles, he goes ahead with the updates._

~No,~ Fenris replies, once he figures out how. ~They installed it. I removed it.~

~Ouch.~ A pause as the dwarf inspects the other implants. _Looks like (what's this then?) the neural processor cluster is roughly on par with mine. Not as much cache room (and no additional memory) and no partitioning (makes sense, never seen another shard with partitioned processing, I really should be insane), but more raw processing power (had an extra decade of research after all) in the chip. The mute cluster that runs his... what is that? Some kind of muscle/nerve guidance? The shards it's attached to seem to suggest that (some wires down to his spine, most of them to parts of his brain that deal with motor control so... probably?). I got nothing like that really (my HUD overlay is similar-ish kinda but he has one of those too in his neural processor cluster) though mine is more elaborate. That last one though... bit of brilliance really, though what happened to it.. Ah. Probably from removing the puppetry cluster (sick bit of work that, how would that ev— blood magic). Fuckers figured out a blood magic implant cluster. Well, that would be nightmare fuel for later (glad I'm a dwarf)._ ~Alright, updates are going strong. You could use a good defrag and refractor but that can wait. For now... Take a lyrium injection, and we'll take another stab at this. Don't worry about staying silent, I'll do defense. You just tear it up~

"Got it." _Gods above this is creepy. Having him in my head— I hope he can't read my thoughts, if you can stay the fuck out you dwarven bastard— I'm so glad I had that puppet chip (Tracker Chip, as far as Garrett knows) removed. Right. Going in._

He cracks his knuckles, and with the implant vision, Varric gets a sense of how good Fenris actually is. Which is fairly good, given he could only have learned in the past few years. He makes heavy use of his implant's auto-correct and auto-complete, beginning to type and hitting the virtual 'tab' key; the implant is smarter than it seems, much like his own 'virtual assist' functions that aid him in setting up his systems, but it's geared toward hacking and intrusion, and only that. Much deeper knowledge, but much more limited in scope. Fenris has an aptitude for it, though, an intuitive understanding of what he's doing that the assist complements nicely.

"Thanks," he grunts, as he works, while he waits to see if this exploit will work.

That one does not, in fact, work. But it does reveal that one of the firewalls has a tiny flaw in the way it processes incoming characters. And if he can trick _that_ firewall, he can then talk to _this_ console as what it thinks is trusted source. And from there...

~Good, good. Go... leftish. Towards the root ac— no, the other... yes! I think you can get access to the fire suppression system from there. They often have override access into power systems...~

"Got it."

It takes them hours. It takes them a few more shots of lyrium. It takes them two pots of coffee. But they manage to break through at last, disabling enough of the security system that Fenris figures he has a shot at getting through the ship undetected to make the drop.

He rubs his face, bleary-eyed, and sits back. "Alright. Let's go."

"Don't bother, I'll just DM Gerald to let Lily know it's time for them to head in," Varric says wearily, not stirring in his seat. _Dale will keep us in cover, Mal is ready to get us moving... should be good._

"I can get in easier than they can, with my implants," he reasons. "And you'll be able to track our progress."

"One, you're about to pass out. Two, they're used to working together but don't know you. Three, we can support them from here just as easily. Better actually, given that we can continue to use the computers we've set up here. And you know, not strain ourselves more than is needed."

"But it's _Garrett_ ," he growls, leaping to his feet.

"So we should do this right," Varric says firmly. "You think I don't want to be a part of this?" he demands. "Of course I do! I Want to be right there getting him back, the same as Mal! But that's not the right choice. So we stay here."

Fenris's hands ball into fists, and he glares at Varric, his chest heaving. A moment passes, then another; slowly, he sinks back into his chair, dropping his head into his hands.

"It's hard," Varric agrees quietly, sending that message to Gerald.

"He saved my life," says Fenris, quietly. "I just want to return the favor."

"You are," Varric says firmly. "Support is just as important as being on the front line."

"How did you do it? How did you get free?" he asks, his head still in his hands.

Varric hesitates. "Garrett takes after his father," he finally says. "I made it partly out myself while they were showing me off like a show-horse but if I hadn't gotten help in the end..." He shakes his head.

"Heh. They'd never show me off; I was a rebellious experiment. I managed to break their control, so they punished me. I was weak with hunger when Garrett found me in my isolation cell, but I still managed to escape with him. Had his healer cut the puppet chip out on the boat, before they noticed I was gone and looked for the gps in it."

"From what I saw at the empty base, they seem to have upped their security rather significantly since my go around," Varric agrees, leaning back in his chair. "What did you do? To break their control?"

"They didn't test it right away. I'd been poking around some. When the time came for them to try it out, I was able to exploit the chip itself." He shrugs. "It hurt. I did it anyway. I won't be controlled."

Varric snickers softly. "Yeah... bleeding edge scientists can be like that if they don't have enough solid engineers around." The dwarf shakes his head a little, then flicks his eyes upwards. ~They're heading over— let's get back to guardian spirit duty, yeah?~

* * *

Just as Lily and Gerald slip over the side of the yacht towards the carrier ship, Mal's phone begins to ring. Loudly. Shrilly.

Malcolm silences his phone the quickest way possible: by answering it, ducking down below the deck quickly. He doesn't speak, letting the other party identify themself first.

He gets the best possible result: his wife. "Hawke, where is my son?"

"I don't know," he says, his voice tense as a bowstring. "I'm working on it."

" _What do you mean you don't know_?" she squawks indignantly. "I just got an auto-email from him saying you're taking him on a week-long business trip!"

_Andraste's fucking teeth_. Malcolm clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath as he ducks into the hallway just outside the room where Varric and his friend are hard at work. "Yes. But he didn't show up. So I'm looking for him."

There's a pause, no more than five seconds. "I'm calling the police to find him," she declares

"Fine," he says, "But they won't act until he's been gone forty-eight hours. Did anything happen on his date? It was you who set it up, right?"

Leandra sniffs. "That's for normal people," she says simply. _The guard will look if the request comes from an Amell or the new guardsman will_. "Of course not, he was at the House of Painted Silk, a perfectly respectable playhouse." _Even if it was founded by_ those _sort_.

"His emergency bracelet reports he left the play early. Went to the girl's home, clearly taking her back, then remained there for some time before heading to the docks. I'm on the yacht now, he's not here, and his bracelet's signal was lost. So why didn't he stay for the play? What _happened_? If you want to help find him, reach out to the girl's family and find that out."

Leandra sniffs. "Perhaps I shall; at least Jeanie will actually _care_ about my troubles," she says bitterly.

"The only person I care about right now is Garrett," he snaps. "Help or leave me be."

Leandra puffs up, eyes flashing— but she stops herself before she speaks. _Garrett. My boy..._ "Fine. I'll call Jeanie and ask if he said anything before leaving her estate," she says, tone still bitter but much less so. She hesitates a second, then adds begrudgingly, "I'll call— message you if she has any information."

Mal's tone softens a little. "Thank you," he says, meaning it. "Whatever is between us, I know we both want him to be safe."

"Safe I suppose we can both agree on," she agrees tentatively, feeling out the extent of the truce they're building.

"Preferably happy," he adds. "But I'll settle for safe, for now. Call me if you find anything, and I'll call you if I find him."

"Very well." A pause. "Good luck." And then the line goes dead.

* * *

Covered in blood, drenched in sweat, Lily, Gerald, and the blond boy make their way through the Templar ship. They only had to dispatch two guards they ran into along the way, but one of them put up a real fight; his body was difficult to dispose of, but it's gone now, and all evidence of their fight scrubbed up. Better to not alert anyone; the systems are taken care of, and the panic buttons disabled, but they can only do so much about physical evidence. The Church mechanics are already concerned that the engines won't boot back up, after all.

They can't get to Garrett, of course. They can confirm he's there; there's no cameras in the dungeon, but they have record of him bring brought in. Lily and Gerald are only two operatives, and there's easily a dozen templar between their entry point and the target.

So instead they creep in close, plant a package, and retreat, letting Malcolm carry out his singular, important task...


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett has been taken by the Templar. Malcolm, Varric, and Leliana have a plan to get him back...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: implied torture, suicide attempt

_This is political bullshit_. That isn't the first time Captain Vallen has had that thought. Not even the first time she's had that thought tonight. _I know damn well that this 'anonymous tip' is coming from someone that's anti-Templar. On the other hand; fuck the Knight-Commander and her heavy-handed, bigoted bullshit. I hate being someone else's tool, but the law is the law. It doesn't matter if it benefits someone's plans for it to be carried out; as long as the crime is real, the criminal needs to be stopped_. "How are we on form-up?" she barks out as she gets out of her car and strides over to the public ferry the guard have taken over to serve as a field base.

Reports come flying at her: warrant just cleared (suspiciously fast, she notes but puts aside). Four tactical teams are in place, plus two teams of Gray Wardens, the elite of the elite, and the closest thing Kirkwall has to soldiers (though special forces would be more accurate). The Templar carrier ship is still holding a scant two hundred feet from international waters, though it looks like they've just got power back given that the emergency lights have switched back over to regular seven minutes ago. Radio is still down, however, so they're not going to get much warning.

"Alright, let's form up and get moving. There's supposedly two point three million dollars worth of stolen medical-grade lyrium on board and the Viscount would very much like to get that back," Vallen bellows. _Anything to please his money-based nobility. Bootlicker_. Still, she can't help but acknowledge that getting this feather in his cap will almost certainly result in additional funding for her guard. Ah. _The_ guard. _Maybe even enough to get proper fucking body armour for the rank and file. Real, high quality synthetic silk instead of natural._

With a flurry of movement, guards pour into motorboats and embark towards the carrier. And of course, Captain Vallen is right there in the lead boat, her heavy combat armour catching the first rays of the dawn as if in warning.

At first she's met by standard-issue Templar soldiers, wearing their tactical gear, ready to resist intrusion— and shocked to find the intruders are the Guard, a legal warrant in hand. Within minutes, however, she's facing down their leader: the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, Meredith Stannard.

Aveline is a tall woman; she's used to towering over her enemies, intimidating them with her bulk. Meredith is only an inch shorter, but she has a presence about her, one that makes her feel like the taller of the two. Her blue eyes are steel, unyielding and cold, and her platinum hair hangs loose but does nothing to soften the severity of her expression.

"Why are you here, Captain Vallen?" she demands, stepping up to meet Aveline's eyes, forming a physical barrier to her entering the bowels of the ship.

"Knight-Commander Stannard, I have a warrant to search your ship," Vallen says directly, not wasting time nor words on the matter. "You are required by law to stand down your forces and permit entry immediately."

"Impossible," she says immediately. "We have contained a dangerous blood mage. You're welcome to search the rest of the ship, but for your own safety and the safety of your men you must remain clear of the holding area."

"My warrant gives me the right to search the _entire_ ship." Vallen pauses, then raises a hand. "I will, however, allow you to accompany me while I and a team of Gray Wardens search the... dangerous areas of your ship." A little bit of a dig there, as each Gray Warden team has at least one Blood Mage and one quasi-templar on it, in addition to whatever else the team leader adds.

Meredith presses her lips firmly together with displeasure, but gives a short nod. "Acceptable."

With no further ado, she turns to open the door, leading the way down into the aft of the ship. Her men fall in to flank Aveline's troops, providing an escort ready to step in and physically protect them— or prevent them from acting.

The stairs lead down to a hallway, which proves some difficulty in navigating; her men have to go single-file, with a Templar on either side of them, making for an awkward situation. They search a few storage areas, finding nothing but the usual supplies: runes, lyrium clearly marked with the Church's seal, scientific equipment undergoing maintenance. "We are having some difficulty with our engines," says Meredith, "so at the moment we are performing a maintenance overhaul."

_Convenient that,_ Aveline thinks. _If you hadn't had engine troubles when and for how long you had them..._ "I see. Why are you withdrawing from Kirkwall waters?"

"We simply seek to contain the blood mage, prevent him from harming innocents in Kirkwall. He is to be transported to a more secure facility in Fort Lauderdale." She gives a cold smile, clearly displeased about something; but then, when is she ever pleased?

"I just had someone check— no report of a blood mage has been given to either the guard or viscount's offices," Vallen observes, studying Stannard carefully.

"He attacked a Templar, we apprehended him on the spot," says Meredith, stretching the truth considerably, but matching what she's written in her official report to be filed later. "There was no need to involve your office."

"No? So this didn't take place in Kirkwall? And he's not a Kirkwall citizen?" Both things would mean that yes, yes she does in fact have to inform the guard. "And you're not holding him in Kirkwall's sovereign territory?" Which, given the entire ship is currently in Kirkwall waters...

"He attacked a citizen of the UP," snaps Meredith. "He's being extradited there, not held." The difference is subtle, and very murky: were this ship smaller, a cargo ship, it might be possible to claim this is transportation, but given the size of the carrier, the fact that it contains a dungeon, it's practically a fortress, meaning he's being held inside the Church property as well as transported. On the other hand, Kirkwall lacks a dedicated team or containment area for blood mages so it could easily be argued that the Risk of Crisis clause could be invoked. There's good reason why 'international mage criminal law' is its own speciality in most countries.

Vallen moves to stand directly in front of Stannard, no longer pretending to simply being talking while moving. "Is the mage a Kirkwall citizen?" she ask in a low, very calm voice.

Meredith does the only thing she can in the face of that tone: she lies. "We are uncertain the identity of the blood mage."

"Really." Vallen does not sound convinced. "Then I suppose it's my duty to... assist you in this. Lead me to him. Now."

"Absolutely not. The blood mage is dangerous; it's too risky. I cannot allow you to come to harm in my ship, Captain Vallen." Behind her, up the stairs, from a lower deck, comes a muffled scream of fear and pain.

"I'm a big girl, I'll take the risk."

"Greene!" the Knight-Commander snaps to one of her men. "Get the Captain a waiver. I don't want her suing us for her own folly in confronting a dangerous, hostile blood mage."

One of her templars salutes, then turns to head off into the ship— presumably looking for said waiver, which will take precious time away from the search.

Vallen takes a step closer, now within Stannard's personal space. "I am Guard Captain of Kirkwall. I have faced as many if not more blood mages in combat than half your men. Now. Either take me to your prisoner or I will have you dragged off this boat in chains for unlawful delayance of a legal warrant. Am I perfectly clear?"

Meredith draws herself up, meeting Vallen's glare with her own. "As the Knight Commander of Kirkwall, I advise against this course of action, and cannot and will not be held responsible for any injury you encounter," she says coldly. But, in the end, she does turn to lead the way down the stairs into the holding area. Something Vallen is grateful for, as the standoff had been just as tense and wearing on her as it had been for Meredith, even with the advantage of a slight edge in legality.

She bypasses multiple holding cells, heading directly for a room at the end of the hall: a room whose door is open, she notes with displeasure. That must be how the screams got out; the room is soundproof, but the door is a key component of the insulation, and it's standing open.

As they get closer, Meredith stops, holding out a hand. She notes the body lying in the open doorway with a scowl, seeing the pool of blood. "He may have escaped his chains," she warns.

Vallen's armour crackles faintly and she gives the Knight-Commander a very professional sneer. "You are not the only one protected by faith," she says evenly, the faintest trace of smugness audible. And well she should be— that's a Templar technique and Meredith would be well aware that Vallen is not and has never been a Templar. So for her to know how to reinforce her armour to withstand magic in that way...

Without a second look, Vallen moves into the room with wary eyes and her shield held ready. As she opens the door the rest of the way, it's clear what this room is used for: there are runes inlaid into the walls, rather than digital screens, and the centerpiece of the room is a table hoisted to hold the mage at a nearly 45-degree angle, making it easy to see him. On the floor around the table are three more dead templar, each with a broken neck; the mage, however, is still restrained.

The mage is naked, making it clear that he is likely a 'he'. There is a brand burned into his bruised skin at the belly, one in the middle of his chest, and one on each hand; at his throat is a collar with a rune as well, meaning he's one brand shy of the full Rite of Tranquility.

Not that it's easy to see his forehead, the site of the final brand. His face is burned, some of his hair singed off, and swollen from being beaten bloody; it's almost plausible that she couldn't identify him if he were anyone but one of the most famous mages in the city, Garrett Hawke. His eyes are wide, but the gag in his mouth prevents him from screaming, just as it prevents him from casting. He struggles, breathing rapidly, desperate to get free, clearly terrified.

_Son of a— Fuck!_ To her credit, her reaction, her impulse, to get him down and help him isn't slowed in the slightest by her distaste for the Amells. She has a flicker of annoyance, yes, but she doesn't once think to leave him here. Hand flying up to her collar, she barks, "I need a medical team here **now**!" even as she surges towards him. "Knight-Commander Stannard, you are way out of line with this! Wardens, delta-eight!"

The seven Wardens escorting her instantly draw weapons and move to guard Vallen and the mage from the Templar, though they don't make any aggressive moves beyond that. Well, six do, the seventh, the mage, rushes over to Vallen to give what medical aid she can provide.

"Stand down, Captain! We are well within our rights to administer the Rite of Tranquility to a hostile, unrepentant blood mage. We have a recorded confession," Meredith snarls, and the next bit of the sentence would have been 'and we are outside your jurisdiction' if the engine hadn't died. Is that why they're one brand short? To allow time to fix the engine and get out of Kirkwall?

"This is a citizen of Kirkwall and you have no right to do this to him without clearing it through our courts first," Vallen snarls. "This is Garrett Amell Hawke, as you damn well know!"

"Is it?" Meredith asks, coldly. "I had no idea. My mistake. Perhaps he should refrain from casting blood magic if he wishes not to be mistaken for a blood mage."

As the Warden gets his gag off, Garret coughs and spits. "Go to hell," he snarls, a whimper of pain rising into his voice. "I want my lawyer."

_That sounds familiar_ , a part of Aveline notes with a flicker of what she would deny to her grave is pride. "Understandable," she replies— to Garrett, not Stannard. "And where did this blood magic take place at? When?" That is directed at her, however. As she faces the templar, the Warden mage starts casting some low-level healing spells, just enough to take some of the worst damage away.

"He attempted to enchant a UP citizen using blood magic, and fought her Templar guards when they intervened to take him in just tonight. We have a confession, and were attempting to extract information about where and when he learned such tricks when you intervened."

Garrett sags a little as the healing rushes through him. The collar at his throat prevents him from casting; even he can't break out of the Templar-grade restrictions. Otherwise he'd have healed himself well before now— just as he tried to do when he was taken from the lead box, though he didn't get far enough to do more than weaken himself.

"Where?" Aveline presses, eyes narrowing. _What would Garrett Amell Hawke be doing with a UP citizen?_

"The House of Painted Silk, at 6:35 this evening."

"Witnesses? _Besides_ Templar? That's a very popular spot in the evenings."

"He lured her to a secluded area. We have her testimony," says Meredith firmly. "The citizen is a civilian."

"I see. I'd like a copy of that testimony then. And her name, of course." _If she even exists, that should be an interesting read._

"Of course. Poor Maribell Rutherford has taken to her bed to rest after her terrifying ordeal," Meredith says coolly. "But her testimony can be provided."

"Mmmh. Well, that will be a good start to his proper, _legal_ , trial," Vallen says just as coolly. _The law applies to everyone, even the rich, even Templar. Bitch._

As the Warden frees him from his bonds, Garrett slumps against the mage; another of Aveline's men drapes a blanket around his shoulders, but he can clearly barely stand, shivering despite his brave words. "I never," he growls. "She's _lying_."

"A judge will decide that. Put him back in his cell," snaps Meredith. "We're taking him to the UP to stand trial."

"No, you aren—" She pauses, head tilting to the side as she listens to something over her ear piece. "Knight-Commander Stannard, you are hereby under arrest for grand theft lyrium, smuggling and possession of illegal drugs. It seems that it's not Hawke's trial you should be concerned with."

Her eyes widen in shock. "What? What nonsense is this?! We're the _Church_. We are fully licensed to purchase, store, and use lyrium!"

"We just found over two million dollars worth of medical grade lyrium hidden in your pantry, mixed into bags of rice." Vallen studies her closely, trying to get a read on the other woman. "It's not stamped with the Church crest. In fact, it's stamped with someone else's crest, someone that reported a similar amount and type of lyrium stolen some time ago." _Someone closely related to the person you kidnapped, claiming Blood Magic. An interesting coincidence that._

Oddly enough, Meredith does seem entirely shocked— and then angry. "I see. How much did the Amells pay you to stage this little stunt, Captain? I hope it was worth your career."

Vallen's eyes blaze. "My life and duty are to the law, Knight-Commander. I serve the people of Kirkwall regardless of station, race, creed or ability. If you are innocent of this charge, then that will be determined in a court of law, just the same as Hawke."

"Fine. Let's go then. Men, report to Karras for your orders henceforth." Meredith moves closer to Aveline, every bit of her imposing presence brought to bear. "This isn't over, Vallen. Not by a long shot. I will remember this when I am exonerated."

* * *

Later, in the back of the police car on the way to the hospital, Garrett is as subdued as Vallen has ever seen him. He looks small, tired, weak; the healing only did so much, after all, and he's yet to apply more.

"I'm innocent, you know," he says quietly. "I never cast on Maribell, not once."

_I actually believe you this time,_ she thinks. _Sex while drunk, possibly. Roofies, E or the like? Probably not. Blood magic? No. Regardless of your family's other abuses, the Amells have always been strong advocates and champions of magical ethics._ "I understand. But that's not something I can decide on right now. We're taking you to a hospital to recover. You'll be guarded but treated with care and dignity."

"Am I still under arrest?" he asks, looking out the window, though he doesn't see much of the buildings they drive past. _Everything seems so blurry, so far away. And I'm so tired. I just want this to be over._

"Yes. But _our_ investigation is just starting, and you'll have your chance in court before any sentence is handed out." _Unlike some, we actually care about the law, about justice, not just zealotry._

Garrett is quiet for a few moments, deep in thought; his hands roll, as if trying to get the handcuffs to sit more comfortably over the silk gloves. _Only silk_. Finally, he asks, his voice small, "Can I ask a favor? Can you tell my father... tell him I love him, and I'm sorry?"

Vallen's head snaps around from the passenger seat. "You can tell him yourself. Once we get you settled into the hospital, you'll be allowed visitors. Your father and lawyer for instance."

Garrett stares out the window, his eyes dry, but his expression bleak. "Just... Please. He deserves to know. I can't— I can't let— I'm sorry."

The silk in his hands warms, burns, then bursts into blue flames as he pours more mana into them than they can absorb and repress. Freed of his restrictions, he closes his eyes, settles back into the seat, and lets the blue glow of healing magic wash over him.

Twisting around, Vallen slams him with a disruption. A very unpleasant feeling for a mage, but better than him— _Healing? What— did we miss some injury?_ The officer driving the vehicle wretches it over to the side of the road and start barking for Warden support.

He coughs, shuddering as he's jarred out of the spell, fighting the urge to vomit from the unnatural feeling of it. "No," he murmurs, voice sounding distant to his own ears. There's black around the edges of his vision, and his skin is cold, clammy, and his body feels so far away, he knows he has to reach for his mana reserves and cast again but it feels so far away, he just wants to rest, to fall into oblivion— _No. Cast. Hurry. You'll— you can't faint yet._

The door gets ripped open before he can gather the willpower needed. But not by a guard. No, he knows this voice, knows the hands that grab his own. "Garrett, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe, let us take care of you."

"Please," he murmurs as his eyes slip closed. "Have to— can't— can't let them take me—" He can't find his mana, can't find the strength. Can't figure out how to do more than beg.

Aveline demands, "Who the fuck are—"

"Leliana." Not the most helpful answer. "Garrett, look at me. Trust in me. I won't let them Tranquil you. Okay? I won't. Come what may, I won't let them." She cups his face with one hand, scooting in closer to Garret and closing the door behind her. "Right here with you." Guess she's... arresting herself?

"Thank you," he says quietly, resting his head on her shoulder. Then he lets go, letting unconsciousness take him as he faints dead against her.

* * *

The next six hours go by quickly. Or incredibly slowly, depending on who you ask. For Leliana, who is whisked off as soon as they reach the hospital to be questioned, it's both— the first two hours are amusing as she 'answers' questions for the guard. The last four, where she's stuck in a cell alone, not so much. Thankfully, Varric and Malcolm are waiting at the hospital when they arrive so Garrett is never unattended. For them, the time goes very, very slowly— watching a loved one sleep while gravely wounded is not exactly conducive to relaxing. The family lawyer, on the other hand, finds himself busy enough that the hours seem to be burning away like petrol in a firestorm.

"He'll be fine," Varric says abruptly, the eight time he's started a 'conversation' this way since they arrived.

"Yes," says Malcolm, but he can't help but glance at the chart at the foot of Garrett's bed— the chart with a big, bold note across the top, indicating that the patient is to be watched at all times to prevent suicide.

"It's a side effect of the meds. And hell. He's hurt, delirious and terrified— it's not— it's perfectly understandable to— to consider—"

"Attempt," corrects Malcolm, but before he can go on, he notices movement— a twitch of his son's hand. "Garrett?" he asks, and his voice cracks as he rushes back to his seat beside the bed. "Garrett, can you hear me? Are you awake?"

Six tracks of thought, set to work business in order to try and distract himself, all cut off and refocus on the young man in the bed. Varric surges to his feet as well, then forces himself to hold back, just a little.

Garrett's hand twitches again; then his face scrunches faintly, brow furrowing with worry. His head tilts a little, and his eyes flutter open. "Wh—" he begins.

"Thank the Maker," says Mal, grabbing for his son's hand and holding it tightly despite the handcuff.

"You're in the hospital. Mal and I are here," Varric says quickly, moving to the elfblood's side. "You're stable and healing. Deep breaths."

Garrett takes a deep breath, letting it out. He shifts a little, feeling the metal of handcuffs restricting his motions, feeling the telltale buzz of a mage collar around his neck, separating him from his own ability to cast. _Trapped. Well and truly trapped._

"Templars," he slurs, struggling to piece together what happened.

"They're gone," replies his father. "We have you, son."

"Knight-Commander Stallion or whatever is currently in jail herself. Evidently she— or someone under her command— was the one that stole that crate of lyrium from my warehouse a few weeks back," Varric adds. "So she's a bit busy. It's the Kirkwall guard watching you now. You'll get a fair trial and you're innocent. Nothing left but paperwork and waiting, shagua. It'll be fine."

"Innocent," he mumbles. "I'm innocent. Maribell said— she lied. Panicked. Hates me."

"Of course," Varric soothes him. "We know you would never cast that sort of shit."

He takes a deep breath, then another, some of the grogginess clearing. "They— they made me confess. Torture. Tortured me into confessing." He winces as Malcolm's hand tightens painfully on his own.

"Confession under torture is worthless," Varric says instantly. "Not just legally either, though it is. After a certain point, a man will say anything to make the pain stop."

"Not anything," he whispers. "They wanted me to say that Dad taught me. I wouldn't."

Malcolm bows his head, taking a deep breath. _So Varric was right. They were after me_. "You did good, son," he says quietly. "I wish you never had to go through that, but you did good. I'm proud of you."

_Yes anything. Just hadn't done enough yet. Thank stone._ "Good on you," Varric says aloud instead. "Mal's right— you did damn good. You just rest for now, let us take care of things for a bit, alright?"

"They're going to Tranquil me," he whispers. "They almost did."

"Like hell," growls Malcolm. "You're not a blood mage, you're not an abomination, and I won't let them do that to you."

"They almost, but they didn't. You still have your magic. You're hurt, banged up and mussed, but you're still intact," Varric says gently, reaching over to brush a lock of hair out of Garrett's face without thinking. "You're safe."

"Safe," he murmurs, tilting his head to press his forehead against Varric's palm gently.

A moment later he takes a deep breath. "What happens next?"

Malcolm frowns a little, noting the touch, but thinks little of it. _They've gotten a lot closer than I realized_. "Well, the Guard is going to want to question you. They're probably going to keep you here a few days, under observation. Then... it's up to a judge to decide what to do with you. Whether the doctors want to admit you here, or release you into police custody— and if the latter, what to set your bail at, which I'll gladly pay."

"Keep me— am I that badly hurt?"

"Half dozen bone fractures of note, two broken bones— simple breaks thankfully, not compound— contusions and cuts over some eighty percent of your body, third degree burns from electricity, mana depletion... yes, yes you are. So. You rest. Arthur is doing his job, going over evidence, such as it is," Varric begins, ratting off what people are up to. "So just relax and—"

" _Where is he? Where's my baby boy_?" A far too familiar voice rings out from the hallway.

Garrett's eyes snap open again. "No," he whispers.

That's all Malcolm needs. He releases Garrett's hand, standing once more and moving toward the door, hoping to put himself physically between his wife and his son.

"I got you," Varric murmurs, stroking Garrett's forehead as he also turns to face the door.

There's more discussion, more loud, sharp words exchanged, and soon enough, Malcolm can hear his... wife... right outside the door. Lambasting the two guards stationed there, of course, not even bothering to give them the time to tell her whether she can enter and just assuming she has to brow-beat her way inside.

Malcolm doesn't wait, doesn't risk giving her ground: he rips the door open, positioning himself in the doorway to block her entry. _I should never have called her._ "Leandra," he says in a tone like ice. "He's resting. Keep your voice down."

"Look at me shagua," Varric murmurs. "Rest now. Let us handle this... please."

Garrett's eyes drift closed again. "Yes, sir," he whispers, sleepily.

"Malcolm!" His wife sags a little, then stiffens. "Explain to these two fools that I'm his _mother_ and I— that he needs me," she demands, thankfully lowering her voice at least.

"He's resting," Malcolm repeats, his tone gentler. "Let's get coffee and I'll fill you in."

"Let me just see him. Just for a moment, please," Leandra asks, trying and failing to not sound like she's begging.

Malcolm's face softens a touch, and he steps aside partially, enough for her to look past him into the room and confirm Garrett's presence, resting, clutching Varric's hand tightly. Leandra doesn't even notice the other man, her eyes only for her son. At his bruised, swollen face, littered with stitches and gauze. "What did they do to him?" she asks in a horrified whisper, hand coming up to cover her mouth.

"Torture," he says softly. "And they tried to Tranquil him. Captain Vallen got there just in time. He's safe now."

"Tran—" Leandra staggers back a step, then another. "But he— that's for— _Garrett_?"

"He's not," Malcolm says quickly. "The Ruthorford girl... we're not sure what happened, but she told the Templar some awful lies."

Leandra's lips narrow. "Maribell? No, not her. I did finally get ahold of Missus Ruthorford," not Jeanie? "And got the most interesting story." She takes a deep breath, nostril flaring as her temper starts to flare back up from a mere smolder. She eyes him for a moment, then nods slowly. "I think we need to discuss this, in private."

"I agree. Let's grab some coffee and have a chat."

* * *

A few minutes later, the pair of them are seated in Malcolm's Nissan— he'll have to pick up the Audi from whatever impound lot it was deposited it later— in line at the Starbucks, waiting to get to the speaker. Mal takes a moment to rest his head back against the seat, eyes closing for a little, as his body begs him for rest.

"What did you hear?" he asks her, quietly. "I suspect your part starts earlier in the evening."

"I called a half dozen times, trying to get a hold of Missus Rutherford. I eventually had a driver take me over there— and I was turned away," she seethes. "Like some common caller, like— well. Shortly after, sweet little Maribell called me herself, having overheard her mother mentioning my attempt to call. It seems that she and Garrett had a small tiff of some kind, something silly but seemingly important in the moment she explained. Well, she fled to the box at the theatre to have a cry and tripped on the carpet. When Garrett tried to catch her, he was attacked. Ambushed."

"Unsurprising," says Malcolm quietly. "He's a mage. She's one of the old Church guard. If she was upset and he laid hands on her... she had Templar bodyguards, I assume? They likely took him straight to their boss."

He takes a deep breath. "His tracker shut off at the docks; they probably encased him in lead. We saw them loading cargo onto their carrier, and heading out to sea. We called the guard, and they searched the ship. It seems they had taken some of the company Lyrium, as well as our boy. Both were retrieved; they were in the middle of performing the Rite when Captain Vallen barged in. They say he confessed to practicing blood magic, but the state he's in... they clearly coerced that confession. They're claiming he enchanted Maribell."

"Nonsense! Garrett would _never_!" Leandra nearly snarls the refusal.

"Enchant her? No. He wouldn't. Say something crass that gave her ideas to accuse him, to teach him a lesson? Sure." He opens his eyes, glancing over at her. "Lots of pretty young girls will flaunt their power. Make sure he knows what will happen if he doesn't do as she bids."

"This is far from a little power play," she protests with a scowl. "That sort of game is limited to having an older brother threaten a boy a little, or getting them talked to by security at most. This? _Templar_? This shouldn't even involve the guard, much less _Templar_!" She shakes her head, sniffing, as her scowl deepens. "Besides, that wasn't— Maribell wasn't doing that. She was just upset and things were assumed. She doesn't wish him any harm at all— in fact, quite the contrary, she's very concerned about him."

"Oh, I believe she didn't intend all this. But that's only because she underestimated how much power she truly has. But this was a power play, make no mistake. Girls like her... well, _you_ would never be caught rushing off to cry unless you wanted someone to comfort you, even at her age. And with an escort, comforting her is quickly followed by punishing the one who hurt her. She wanted him to suffer, just not this much. The consequences aren't _real_ to her the way they are to people who grew up with mages."

Leandra opens her mouth to argue, then shakes her head. "This is entirely beside the point," she says firmly. "What's being done now?"

"Meredith has been arrested for the theft of the lyrium. She'll likely be rebuked for taking the boy without proper authority. But he's in police custody now, accused of attempted mind control and practicing blood magic without a license. Once the doctors clear him, he'll have a bail hearing and be home on bail awaiting trial. Assuming Maribell is still pressing charges, he's looking at anywhere from a decade to two decades depending how severe they rule against him. If she can be convinced not to pursue this, he's just looking at the fine for lacking a license."

Leandra sags back against the seat, looking deeply relieved. "Oh. Oh thank the Maker," she sighs. "And not even that really— Garrett is no Blood Mage after all."

" _If_ she recants," he warns.

"She already has," Leandra says, waving that off. "She's at home. Mine, not hers. She snuck out after she found out what happened to Garrett. Poor dear was sobbing when she get there— took a cab, not even an Uber. Very distraught about everything, I gave her some xanax and put her in the guest room."

"Thank you," he says quietly. "I'll call Captain Vallen and have her meet us at the house. We'll want her testimony given before her parents can find where she went."

"Captain Vallen can meet _me_ there. Best you keep your distance," Leandra corrects him.

"Fine. I'll drop you and go back to the hospital." He pulls up to the window, placing their orders: his own blonde roast with soy creamers and hazelnut syrup, and her favorite: a skinny vanilla latte with caramel syrup.

A petty urge to tell him she wanted something else rises but she brushes it off. "Thank you." She falls silent for a moment. "You'll— you'll call, if anything... if Garrett..."

"He woke briefly," he assures her. "He seemed lucid, just exhausted. He... there was... in the cop car, there was an... an incident," he says, and he has to fight to keep his voice even.

"What did they do to him?" she hisses, some of the fire that first lured him to her surfacing.

"Nothing," he says quietly, as he inches forward a little, to let the car behind reach the speaker. "He— he tried to kill himself." Leandra stares at him, breath frozen in her throat, as he continues. "We think— we _hope_ — it was— they tried to turn him Tranquil, Lea. They tried to— it's— We hope he was afraid that would happen, that he was trying to escape a fate worse than death." He has to take a moment, breathing deeply, closing his eyes, his head tilted back to the roof of the car, but he manages to keep from breaking down in sobs.

"But— but he's— He's got so much... He would... why would..?" She swallows repeatedly, trying not to have a panic attack or faint. "How could— I don't—"

"He was afraid," he says softly. "He was afraid of what the Templars would do to him if they got hold of him again. That's the kind of damage that lasts, Lea. That's the kind of damage..." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, wiping away mist from his eyes.

Leandra slowly, tentatively, reaches out to place a hand on his arm. "I— I never asked. Before. When you were..." She swallows again, looking away out the window. "Sorry, I shouldn't..."

"Yeah," he whispers. "I.. the Circle was..." He shakes his head. "I don't talk about it. But if it will help Garrett... I will. In my case— in my case, the worst part was that my parents had given me to that place willingly. They had abandoned me there. Garrett doesn't have that. He was abducted, and his parents— both of his parents— fought like hell to save him. That has to help."

Leandra is quiet, even after Malcolm pulls up and finishes the transaction at the second window. She takes her coffee silently and stares at it. "It will. We'll make sure of it," Leandra whispers. "I don't love you. I haven't in years. I can't even make myself want to try and fix that. But our children... us fighting, us being apart— it doesn't touch them. We don't divvy them up, we don't use them against each other, we make sure they come first, all of them. Agreed?"

"Agreed." He takes a deep breath. "We'll have to tell them something. When the younger set come home for summer, they'll notice I'm not living at home. But that is their home, even if it's not mine. I'll find ways to spend time with them, despite living apart. We're both there for them, no matter how we feel about each other."

Leandra nods slightly, still staring at her coffee. "The poolhouse. I've— well, it's livable now. Not luxurious perhaps, but very livable. And it's far enough from the main house that we don't have to see each other unless we mean to but the children could visit easily. If— if that's... acceptable."

"I'd appreciate it. I've begun turning the office into an apartment but... that gives you time to have it retrofitted, and I can stay there over the August at least. When the children are home."

"That's fine. All it should need is a better internet connection and a small kitchenette, as I suspect you'd like to cook for yourself from time to time." She pauses. "You're welcome to call the kitchen in the main house and have something brought down to you of course." _This is... so very strange. Just two days ago... But Garrett... It just feels empty, the back and forth we were doing._

"I was never any good for you, was I, Lea?" he asks, quietly. "I don't want Garrett to make the same mistakes I did. I want him to find... something more meaningful. Something better."

"I don't know. Maybe in another life we could have... but you gave me four children. Perhaps that enough. Isn't it?" She sniffs a little. "A loveless marriage isn't that terrible a price to pay for four wonderful children." _It has to be._

"If it wasn't for your family," he suggests. "if it wasn't for all this shit. All the money and power... all the sacrifices I had to make to get you. I will never regret the children, but the choices I made to get them, a little."

"There's nothing wr—" Leandra takes a slow breath. "I suppose. Well. I suppose they never really did... They wanted your genius." _Not you._

He nods. "I tried. I tried to be brilliant and obedient, to be just amazing enough to increase our fortunes without needing anything more. But you can't live that way forever. No-one can. I don't want that for Garrett, to be trying to live up to an impossible ideal. I want him to find someone who lights his soul on fire, the way you once did for me, and doesn't have the baggage of international politics and wealth to grind him down. Someone who can accept all of who he is, not just part."

Leandra scoffs. "That doesn't exist outside of fairy tales. You're just setting him up for disappointment, wanting that."

"I refuse to believe happiness is impossible," he says quietly. "I refuse to let Garrett believe that."

"Not happiness; love," Leandra says quietly.

"Loveless marriage leads to, well, this." He gives a bitter laugh. "I refuse to accept that for him."

"All marriages are loveless. Love is just passion with naivety on top. We should have married someone compatible. Someone we could have been friends with."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe he needs a bride who is a friend as well as a lover, so when the passion fades, the friendship remains. Maybe that's all there is to it. But you can't arrange that with compatibility charts; it has to be founded on something real."

"That's... maybe so. But he won't find that sort of thing in the life he was wasting," Leandra protests. "Floozies and base commoners, not a one of them worthy of our boy. And— and he's almost died _three_ times in the last few months! He can't keep going like this. He can't. He needs someone to take him in hand, pull him back, guide him, keep him safe from himself."

"You're right," he says. "I know. He's— Maker." He takes a deep breath. "Varric's been putting him through a sort of rehab program. He's gotten him sober, at least, and cut him off from some of the most destructive friends."

"Varric?" Leandra blurts out, her tone a mix of surprise and scorn.

"No," he snaps. "Don't start. Varric's been good for him. Got him sober. He won't come to me, but Varric's far enough removed to be more of an uncle to him, someone he can look up to without feeling embarrassed."

"But—" Leandra splutters. "He— what does he know about— about marriage and proper behavior? How can he teach Garrett what he needs to know?"

"About marriage, very little," he admits. "I'm more worried about him getting his life together first. Varric knows a lot about building your life up from nothing. About becoming a new person, putting your past behind you. It's you and I that will have to teach him about marriage."

"What _is_ his past?" Leandra demands, the secrecy of it having always galled her. Just this random dwarf, coming from nowhere one day to talk to her husband. The next thing she knows, this stranger is not only good friends with her husband but a trusted business partner.

"You'll have to ask him. I won't share his secrets behind his back."

"The last time I tried, he told me he was the Maker's illegitimate son cast out of the Golden City for being too good at Wicked Grace." She glowers at Malcolm. "The time before that, he told me that he was _your_ son, from the future, and also your grandfather."

"You've made your dislike of him abundantly clear over the years," he says mildly.

"And why shouldn't I dislike him?" Leandra says tightly. "Given what he— Whatever, it's too late now to... It's not important."

"...Leandra... what do you think he did?" he asks slowly.

"It's not important," she insists, though her tone is tired more than upset or scornful now.

"It is if you're wrong. And doubly so if you're right and he's done something awful that I need to know about."

"...he took you away. It was— we were... drifting, before, but it wasn't until..." She fiddles with her coffee lid, finally taking a sip.

"Ah," he says, with a sigh. He hesitates, then says, "He didn't, really. Just... I was so lonely, Lea. I didn't know how to talk to you anymore. I found someone who understood me, who... I can only pray you also have friends like that you can talk to."

Leandra shrugs a little, looking worn. "I thought I..." She sighs. "He... you never..."

"I was never unfaithful. Not yet." He takes a deep breath. "I thought of it. But... I had you. It felt wrong, to betray you like that."

She winces, just a little. _It's not a betrayal_ , she reminds herself. _Some things go beyond marriage vows._. "I... then I'm sorry. For— for thinking that of you," she says quietly. "...he's still an asshole."

"Sure," chuckles Mal. "But he's the funny sort. Dependable when you need him. Mouthy and sarcastic the whole damn time."

_That must be nice. I had thought... but if Jeanie would say and do what she... then..._ "I want to know exactly what he's doing for Garrett. But— but if he really is helping then..."

"You can ask him about it. I'll message him, tell him he needs to be straight with you. But he's good for the boy, honestly good for him." He takes a deep breath, taking a long sip of his coffee before adding, "saved his life."

Leandra flicks her eyes at Mal, then shakes her head a little. "If— before you say another word, I don't want to know anything I can't admit to on the stand about... anything. I won't break a vow of truth to the Maker. That said..."

"No, no. Nothing like that. But the second motorcycle accident, Varric was there. He got him help fast enough with his private chopper. That's all I meant."

"Oh." Leandra frowns, then nods. "Well. Good. That's good."

Mal sighs, then, putting his cup into his cupholder, starts the car. "I suppose we'd better head for the house. I don't want to hold anything up. But this was... nice."

Leandra smiles faintly. "Probably the best outing we've had in years... and isn't that sad? That a detour to Starbucks while talking about our son almost dying is the most romantic thing I've done in years?"

He smiles sadly. "I hope you find what you need, Lea. You deserve happiness. I'm sorry I wasn't what you needed."

"I don't think I can have what..." She cuts off, shaking her head. "Sorry. We should get moving. Garrett needs us."

He puts the car in gear, pulling out of the parking spot. "I'll tell you what I told Garrett: I can't help if you don't ask me."

"It's a bit different, him and me to you," Leandra points out.

"Maybe," he agrees. "But I still can't help you if you don't ask for what you want. That's your call to make. It took me ages to work up the courage to ask for an open marriage, and I'm still not sure I did it well. So I won't pry."

She takes another sip of her coffee, studying him in glimpses as she drinks. "Maybe someday. For now, I need to work out some things myself." Her eyes harden and her lips tighten. "Including ruining that _bitch_ I called a friend."

He smiles. "That pleasure I leave entirely to you."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's been rescued, thankfully, and he hasn't been made Tranquil. Now he just has to recover what he lost and get his life back on track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: PTSD, implied torture, BDSM. We're entering into a rough portion of the story, but it's the portion I like to tell most: the portion where messy, complicated healing happens.

Garrett drifts in and out of consciousness over the next few hours. Unbeknownst to him, Captain Vallen interviews Maribell and finds out just how flimsy Meredith's pretext really was; all he is aware of is rest, and Varric's hand, still here with him, guarding him, protecting him. He sleeps deeply, rousing only due to his body's discomfort and drifting back off once he's found a more comfortable position.

The other matter for the courts is the soundness of his mind. That afternoon, when the attending physician gets ahold of Father Lelldorin, the psychiatrist is ushered into the room to speak with his patient and assess his mental state.

Garrett grips Varric's hand tightly, silently begging him to stay. "Hi," he rasps, appraising the older man.

"Good evening," Lelldorin says, then glances out the window. "Or perhaps still afternoon? Regardless. I've heard you've had a rough time of late. How are you feeling? Body first, as I suspect that will be easier to answer."

"Like hell," he admits, wincing. "Sore. I don't want enough meds to take away all the pain right now. I want— I need to be lucid. In control."

"Because?" the priest prompts the younger man.

Garrett glances at Varric, squeezing his hand a little tighter. When the dwarf nods back, he swallows, continuing. "Because I'm afraid," he whispers.

"That's good," Lelldorin says gently. "Both that you're afraid and that you can admit it. After what was done to you, not feeling fear would be... unhealthy."

He shivers, the fear rising up to choke him; he closes his eyes, but that makes it worse, as all at once he's back in the chamber, feeling the pain and heat searing into his chest, knowing any moment he'll be given the final brand, knowing that any second he'll be—

"Safe," Varric croons in his ear. "Safe with me. Open your eyes, I'm right here."

_Varric!_ His mind latches onto Varric's voice like an anchor, pulling him back as he struggles to slow his breathing, to deal with the burning ball of pain in his chest. He takes a deep breath, then another, as his eyes open. "Sorry," he whispers.

"It's alright. Flashbacks are... are going to happen. For a while. They dull and fade eventually but it'll take time. But I'm right here. So's Fen... digitally at least. You're safe," Varric murmurs, pressing his forehead against Garrett's, one hand gripping the back of his head to hold him close.

He takes another deep breath, and then another. "I wasn't fast enough," he whispers, shuddering. "I wasn't fast enough when they got me out of that box. I woke up, when they were taking me out, but I hesitated— I wanted to see you again, I wanted to— and then they got the collar on me."

"Good," Varric says firmly. "Never regret wanting things. Never regret surviving. Alright? Even if— even if that happened, I'd get you. There are... I'd get you."

"But they'd break me. Hurt my family. Find Fen. I couldn't let them. I—"

As his head clears more, he remembers where he is— and who else is in the room. He lets out a small whine as he shuts up, eyes shifting to the side to catch a glimpse of Lelldorin: the elderly man is at the window, peering outside as he hums softly.

Varric pulls his attention back by speaking: "And we'd handle it. Worst to worst, we run for it. Plenty of places would be willing to take us in, grant us sanctuary, in exchange for what we could bring to the table. I got bolt holes and escape plans a plenty. We'd make it work."

"...I can stay?" he asks quietly. "Really stay?"

"For as long as you like," Varric says gently, moving in that last inch to gently brush his lips against Garrett's.

Garrett lifts his head to kiss Varric gently, sweetly, and the dam breaks, tears streaming down his cheeks— tears of relief, it seems, from the way he lays back into Varric's hand.

Varric gives him a moment or two, then moves to sit next to Garrett on the bed. He slips an arm around the younger man, holding him close and letting him lean on him. "Not a bad view for a hospital, eh?"

"Mmmh? Ah, sorry, I was a bit distracted there," the retired priest replies, turning back to them.

"That's fine," says Garrett quietly, wiping at his eyes with his one free hand. "I'm sorry, what were you asking me before?"

"I was simply saying that I am proud of you. For being strong enough to admit to a very understandable fear."

Garrett gives a small nod, swallowing hard. "I— I don't think I'm ready to talk about... what happened. Yet."

"Perfectly fine," Lelldorin assures him. "We need not speak of the Templar's ill treatment then. But we do, I'm afraid, have to speak of your actions in the police cruiser on the way to the hospital."

He tenses a little, looking down at his lap. "Oh," he says quietly. "What do I... what do you need to know?"

"Walk me through the moments leading up to your... attempt," Lelldorin instructs him.

"I was.... I was in the cop car," he whispers, taking a deep breath. The smell of it comes back to him, the distinctly floral, distant, artificial scent of the seat cleaner; someone must have thrown up or bled or something, and the car been detailed. He can feel the firm seat beneath him, the car hurtling onward down the street, can feel himself being dragged along with it, can see the early-morning light barely illuminating the buildings.

"She said I was under arrest," he says, swallowing hard. "I knew the Templars wouldn't give up. That they'd want me back. That they wanted to Tranquil me. I was afraid. And I was so tired. Hurt, and tired. I felt small and weak and afraid. I wanted my dad. I wanted Varric. I didn't think I'd get another chance— once they got me to the hospital I'd have more guards than just the one cop. So I thought, this is my chance. This is when I can make up for not, not doing it before. It can be over."

"Have you been taking your meds?" asks the psychiatrist. "When was the last dose you were able to take?"

"Um. The— the night before last? I didn't take it before I went out. It makes me sleepy."

Lelldorin frowns slightly. "That's a great deal sooner than..." _His blood work on intake suggests he hadn't had any in days, maybe even a week. He's been given more now, after he was— ah._ "Did they heal you?"

He nods. "The Grey Warden did. And I— in the cop car."

"Why does that matter?" Varric asks, brow furrowing.

"Because the vast majority of healing spells and techniques treat any and all medicine as toxins to be purged. Most also speed up the metabolism, which burns through drugs of any kind rapidly. Including your psychiatric drugs."

Garrett hesitates. "I... speed up my metabolism... fairly regularly."

"And every time you do, it wreaks havoc on your brain chemistry. It's the same— no, worse, because of the rapid onset— as skipping doses," Lelldorin scolds him. "You have to stop doing so at once."

Garrett nods, looking miserable. "Alright," he says softly.

"I'm sorry Garrett, I should have thought to explain that little known aspect of magic. Few people not trained as healers are aware of just how complicated healing magic is in regards to biochemistry and metabolic functions. It's a rather sizable part of a spirit healer's education really."

He nods. "So this is... like before? With the knife? Just another... medicine mishap?"

"Well, there was significant external pressure on you as well," Lelldorin points out.

He nods. "I thought— I thought sure they'd— they'd get me. They'd take me back."

"Even if they did, we'd get you back too," Varric murmurs. "But I have some ideas on the prevention angle I want to run by you later, once you're home."

"Home," he whimpers. "When can I go home?"

Lelldorin studies Garrett for a moment, pondering. "How are you feeling? Emotionally this time," he clarifies.

"Shaky," he whispers. "Frightened. Unmoored. I want to go home."

Lelldorin flicks his eyes to Varric, who frowns and readies himself. "And how would you react if approached by Templar right now?"

Garrett sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening. He doesn't have to close them this time to see Templar, the one bearing the brand coming close to him, struggling, panicked, trying to flee, tied down, trapped, collared, the brand pressing into his flesh, he screams, it doesn't matter, the stink of burning flesh—

His breath comes rapidly, and he grabs for Varric's hand, desperate to ground himself in reality, in what's happening _now_.

"Garrett," Varric snaps, grabbing his chin to twist his face towards the dwarf. "You look at me. Understand? Look _here_."

"No, no no," he moans, shuddering, looking through Varric, past him.

"Shagua. My willful, stubborn, braindead mustang," Varric murmurs, tugging Garret's chin to maintain eye contact. "Come back to me. Right here."

"Please, no, please," he whispers, shuddering, chest heaving up and down. "Please—"

But slowly, over the next few minutes, the waking nightmare loses its grip. "Varric," he slips in between a round of "please" and "no". "Varric, please—"

"I have you," Varric says instantly. "You're safe. I have you. It's okay, you're safe."

He slumps, then, the tension giving way as he rests his forehead on Varric's shoulder, shuddering. "I— what's happening to me," he asks, his voice cracking.

"Panic attacks," both men say in unison. After a short pause, Lelldorin continues. "your flight or fight response is triggering, combined with vivid flashbacks. I can prescribe a mild sedative that should hopefully head them off, but that's a short term solution. Time, rest and therapy is the only real solution."

"What—" He struggles to put words together, to force his frazzled brain to function. "What does that mean? For me? For— for the future?"

Lelldorin considers this for a long moment. "You need to be— to have an attendant on hand at all times. Someone you can trust and that can... contain you if you have a panic attack." _Or worse._

"I'll take care of him." No hesitation, no reluctance. Just a simple declaration.

"Yes," Garrett agrees. A moment later, he adds, "What about— dogs? Don't they use dogs? For, um, stuff like that?"

"...we have a mabari," Varric says slowly.

"A properly trained mabari might be able to help, yes, though I would want a more... complex-thinker until you settle some," Lelldorin says gently. "It doesn't have to be the same person at all times, though that can help with some patients."

"Juanita and I to start," Varric suggests, though he has a third in mind as a possible.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Can you— can you work from home? Can I have, um, m-medical leave? For a little while? And then, later, we can see about Barky."

"For at least a week," Varric says firmly. "Then after that, maybe you'd like to take that vacation with your dad."

He tenses, gripping Varric's hand tighter, but gives a small nod. _I want to. If I can._

"It'll be a few days before you can be released, given your wounds," Lelldorin points out gently.

"And that assumes I won't be— be released to— to jail, or the Templar," he whispers. He takes a deep breath, shuddering a bit. "What else do you need from me?"

"I'd like to speak with you for a half hour or so everyday for the next while," Lelldorin says slowly. "Mornings, evenings— I'll work around when you're comfortable."

"Can it... can it be on the phone? Or, um, Sending? Just..." He winces.

"Go on," he says gently.

"I uh... I want to be _home_. I don't know that I'll... be up for going out for a bit," he admits.

"I think I can make an exception on my house call policy, given circumstances," Lelldorin says, a gentle smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. _Good. I was worried he was unable to consider the idea of regular contact with someone other than Varric. Wanting the security of home is far less worrying._

He nods. "Okay. I— Okay." He takes a deep breath, then another. "How bad am I? I've— I've met people who were... were hurt, real bad, before. Is it— am I— like that?" _Like Fen_ , he doesn't beg.

"It's too early to tell. You are very traumatized, yes, but it just happened yesterday. It's entirely possible that you will heal with barely a mark from your ordeal. Admittedly, that is not likely, this was... rather horrific as I understand it, but you have a wonderful support system, good medical resources, a young mind and, if I dare say, a skilled mind healer."

He nods again. "Okay. Okay. I can handle that. I— I can handle it. Right?"

"I have faith in you," Varric murmurs. "And if you can't, then I'll be there to carry you until you can."

* * *

He's given a mostly clean bill of health. Lelldorin advises the police that Garrett isn't an active suicide risk, but that he has trauma from his experience and needs to be kept away from Templar for a time to heal. By the time Captain Vallen finishes taking Maribell's testimony and his own, it's clear there's no case for blood magic; this was all a "misunderstanding" drummed up by the Templars, and their own records show significant leading of an addled witness, as well as a "confession" only obtained under torture.

He sleeps, but not deeply or well unless he can cling to Varric's hand.

Given the severity of his injuries, they allow Arthur to attend the bail hearing for him without Garrett being present. So while Malcolm, Leandra, and Arthur go to the hearing, Garrett and Varric receive a visitor.

With just a little more sway in her walk than normal, L— Jua— Garrett's red-headed friend steps into his hospital room. Based on the miniskirt, leggings and blouse, this is probably 'Nita. When she opens her mouth and speaks with a faintly hispanic accent, however, it's confirmed. "I have a letter for you, Garrett," she says, smiling, though she seems a little tense. "An apology letter, from a visitor unsure of her welcome, for her part in... your hardships." _As well she should be._

Taking a seat on the side of the bed opposite where Varric has pulled up a chair so he's within arm's reach of Garrett, she offers him a cream-colored envelope faintly that's been unapologetically cut open already. A faint smell, lilies and rosewater, comes from the stationary. Despite the familiarity of the scent, the handwritten address to him on the front is not his mother's handwriting, but equally as neat and elegant.

_Her part in my hardship. Maribell_. He puts the letter in his lap, looking up in alarm. "Is she here? Did you speak to her? Did she— what did she say?"

Juanita raises an eyebrow. "She is... She ducked into the bathroom after we... spoke. Probably having a bit of a cry in private. Didn't say much, just begged me to give the letter to you, hope it explains things, wished you well, blah blah blah, bolted for the bathroom."

He takes a deep breath, then another. "I need to— _we_ need to speak to her," he says. "I'll— I'll read the letter, but let her know."

Juanita makes a bit of a face, but shrugs. "If you are sure... or I could speak with her about whatever you're worried about. I am rather persuasive, or so I have been told." That last was pure Leliana. And possibly a threat to the other woman.

Garrett glances at Varric. "She... don't hurt her. She's a sweet girl. But I need to impress upon her how vital it is she _not tell anyone_ the things we spoke of that upset her."

So saying, he opens the letter to skim it:

> Mister Garrett Hawke Amell,
> 
> I write to you in hope that I might express even the slimmest of fractions, the meanest of measures, of my regret and sorrow for the suffering my actions caused. I cannot even begin to say how much it pains me to have hurt you this way. I can only [there's a spot here where it looks like she started to write a 'p' and then changed it] hope for your quick and speedy recovery. Please let your mother know if there is anything I can do to begin to make up for what I caused to happen.
> 
> With the utmost regret,
> 
> Maribell Louisa Rutherford

"About what I expected," he says, folding the letter back up. "Let her know? I'm not angry, I just want to talk."

"...really?" Juanita sighs, pouting a little. "You think she is being honest in the letter then?"

"Not really, but... I still have to talk to her. Make sure she... understands things," he adds, wincing. "I told her, um, some of what I told you a few days ago, and..."

"Ah. Wait, what?" Varric turns his head to look at Garrett. "Why? Room's secure, " he adds

"I told her a little. About the, about us. I told her I'm gay and that's why I can't marry her. That I'm with someone. She freaked out that you're not Catholic before I got as far as your name."

"Serio— okay, new rule. From now on, you have to take someone with you when you explain personal things," Juanita says firmly. Shaking her head with resigned amusement, she slips out the door.

"You sure you're up for this right now?" Varric asks softly, taking Garrett's hand.

"No," he admits. "But it's a security leak. I need to be sure it's... not going to be a problem."

Varric squeezes Garrett's hand tightly but just lets it lie for now— he can always kick her out if he has to.

A minute or so later, Maribell half stumbles into the room. She looks tired, her face paler than normal, and her eyes are reddened and dewy. She's lucky in that she's one of those rare few who look fetchingly woebegone when they cry instead of pathetic or wretched. "Umm. I— Garrett. That is— good afternoon?"

"Hi," he says softly. "Sit down. Please."

The young woman hesitates a moment, then slowly creeps further into the room. Before she reaches a chair, she cracks. "I'm so sorry! I would never have— I didn't even know that I was being followed!"

He blinks. "Oh... It's... Okay,' he manages, squeezing Varric's hand. "Just, listen... I need you to not repeat any of the things I told you. I understand if you can't see me again but..."

Caught off guard by his response, Maribell gapes at him for a few beats. "Umm. What?"

"The— I can't— it's good that you didn't mean for this but I need to know you won't tell anyone about me being gay."

"Oh! Umm." She pauses, brow furrowing in thought. "I won't tell anyone, that's the least I— oh. But. Umm. I... I might have said something to your mother?"

He tenses, glancing at Varric.

"Said _what_ exactly?" Varric asks, making the effort to maintain a level tone. _Stone cracks... Why her? Wait._ "And when? Why were you talking to her about this?"

Blushing, Maribell looks down at her hands. "I... My mother knew. That you were... That you had been taken. And she lied to me, to Leah, about it. So. Umm. I sort of, well, ran off to your mother to get help? I'm still staying there, with her." At Varric's pointed look, she recalls the other question. "Oh! Well... I was.. honestly rather hysterical. Babbling rather dreadfully. She gave me a sedative and put me to bed but before that, I said something... Something about the Maker would never want you hurt for loving men? It's not... ideal, marriage should follow His own, man to woman but... The Maker blesses love."

_Andraste's teeth,_ Garrett swears silently. "Alright. That's... not ideal but workable. But you can't tell anyone else. It... I'm already... I'm already in trouble enough."

Maribell nods almost eagerly, even before he finishes speaking. "Yes, of course. I swear I shall not speak again of what you confessed to me at the theatre, or may the Blight return to take my soul from the Maker's grace," she says, voice fervent and guilty as she gives her oath. "I did not mention anything else to her that we—" She breaks off, staring at the dwarf, a heathen, sitting close to Garrett and holding his hand. Her cheeks flush and her eyes widen.

"Not a _word_ ," Garrett growls.

"He— is that not—" Her blushes deepens to crimson, though she looks... tantalized, even intrigued, rather than offended. "Your boss?" she finishes in a whisper.

Juanita swallows a laugh, though she can't hide her smirk. _Someone is having herself a nice little fantasy there. Can't blame her, mind you._

"Garrett has an internship with me, but we're friends first and foremost," Varric says cooly.

"He's offered to let me stay with him for safety. His security system's better than my dad's, and we don't know the Templar won't try something again."

Maribell blushes somehow goes even deeper, traveling down her cheeks to her neck and likely beyond. "I— uh— that is— ummm— oh my," she says in a breathy babble.

"Do you need another minute or ten alone in the bathroom?" Leliana asks sweetly.

Maribell jumps a little, having forgotten she was even there. "W-what? I— I'm fine. I just— that is— that is very improper!" She winces, ducking her head. "But it is not my place to judge," she adds quickly. "I am... nothing to you now. My apologies for my forwardness."

"I don't care if you judge me— you're going to anyway— I just care if you get me hurt again," he says, firmly. "I wanted to make this work. I wanted to help you find a way into a better situation. But you... you're not safe."

She shudders a little, the truth of his words burning. "I'm sorry," she says helplessly. "I just... I was just going to hide in the bathroom to calm down, I never wanted... I wasn't going to tell anyone or..."

"You told them I was a blood mage!"

"I never!" Maribell protests. "I— the Templar asked if I knew you weren't, I just said that I didn't think so. He— he asked if it was possible and..." She gestures helplessly. "I said I couldn't be sure. I can't, I've only met you a handful of times. I didn't think... That shouldn't be enough."

"That's some weak shit," Varric mutters. "But the Templars have killed and tortured on thinner."

"They made me 'confess' I'd enchanted you with blood magic to get you to go with me," he growls. "They said you'd already told them I had."

Maribell shakes her head wildly, eyes wide. "I made no such accusation, I swear it!"

"That is a not uncommon trick," Leliana comments softly. "It... lessens the importance, makes it more likely you will confess, as you think it's already lost ground."

Garrett looks away. "Well, it worked. After they hurt me anyway."

"That's the point of torture, Garrett. It's nothing to be ashamed of," he murmurs, leaning in closer. "You're free now, and safe. Focus on that, focus on here and now and me."

Garrett takes a deep breath, then another, leaning in closer to Varric. "Nita? Make sure she gets home okay?" he asks, clearly done talking to Maribell.

"Of course," Nita says gently, stepping forward to take Maribell's arm.

"I—" she doesn't resist, though she does speak over her shoulder as she's lead away. "If you need— if there's anything I can do... please. Call, write... I— I think I'll be at your mother's for a while, if that's okay?"

"Alright. Thank you," he says, and then he closes his eyes, resting back against the mattress. _Maker. How much longer can this go on?_

* * *

Mal texts not long after: he's paid Garrett's bail, which gets the Guard to remove the handcuff, though not the collar. While Garrett plays a handheld game, showing his father the ins and outs of being a psychic attorney, Varric heads home to get a shower, some food, and a change of clothes.

The house is spotless. It's usually clean; now the floors gleam as though freshly mopped and polished, and the windows have been scrubbed as well. He finds Fenris in the pantry, a trash bag of empty containers and expired food nearby, sniffing each of the spices to determine if they're still potent.

"How is he," he says at once, as if they haven't been in communication nearly constantly over the past few days.

Varric raises an eyebrow as he finishes tying back his still damp hair. "Anxious. Nervous. But better. Glad that he'll be released tomorrow morning. Which..." He hesitates, then changes tracks. "How about you? Take your meds?"

"The vitamins," he agrees. "I haven't needed the painkiller today."

"What about the hyrodex-whatever? The nerve stuff?" Varric asks, eyes narrowing. "And lyrium? Smaller doses more often will have fewer side effects."

"That one makes me sleepy, I took it last night, I'll take it before bed."

Varric scowls at him but lets it go. "Fine. And the lyrium?"

"I took a ton on the boat," he reminds the dwarf.

"That was several days ago and during a period of heavy use," Varric says firmly. "You need to take small doses regularly. If you can't reach the intake port, then ask for help."

"I can reach," he says sullenly. "I suppose I'd better take some, since you're unlikely to shut up about it anytime soon."

"You learn faster than Garrett," Varric notes with a grin. "Where would you say you are, on your road to recovery?" That sounds like a bit more than idle conversation...

"I have my energy back, mostly," he says, "but my stamina is lacking. Why?"

"Because I want to hire you. Garrett needs a bodyguard," Varric says bluntly. "Someone skilled and someone he can trust."

"Accepted," he says instantly.

"There are going to be requirements," Varric warns Fenris.

"Name them."

"First of all, you need to be in top shape. So take your damn meds. I have a private doctor who's worked with me and my implants for over a decade now. Solid guy, if... blunt and a bit crusty in his manners. He has to green light you being fit. If you're not willing to work with that, I'll find someone else."

Fenris studies him a long moment. "Acceptable," he says slowly. "But the amount of lyrium needs to be negotiable. I'm not taking enough to make a dwarf like you happy. Too many side effects."

"Obviously not," Varric agrees. "My doc should be able to figure out exactly how much you need to be stable. Maybe get a reservoir dump for emergencies, high use periods and so forth. Second thing, and easier one for you I suspect— new ident. The works; name, paperwork, hair, clothes, maybe color contacts."

"I've tried hair dye, it won't take."

_Right, I think Garrett mentioned that..._ "Are you overly attached to it? Could shave it down and wear a wig," he suggests. "Or at the least, style it differently, but silver-white hair isn't very common."

"I'm open to box braids," he says, after a moment.

Varric studies Fenris for a moment, then nods slowly. "Yeah, I could see it. Alright, three. No more fight clubs or drugs. If you drink, it's in moderation or on your downtime."

"Why?" Just one word, in a flat, even tone.

"Garrett." Also one word, in a firm, unyielding tone.

"The drinking's no trouble, but why can't I fight?"

"Because you're going to be a bodyguard. You can't afford to be hurt on your downtime and thus be unable to work."

He frowns a moment, then nods. "Reasonable."

_Huh. That was... easier than I was afraid of. Good_. "You have to accept a salary, from me, not Garrett. I'm your boss, not him. So he can't override you in regards to safety concerns or the like." Lower, he mutters, "boy needs a keeper," in mandarin.

"Fine," he agrees. "What else?"

_Health, disguise, lifestyle, authority..._ "Will you be able to accept the... new dynamic with Garrett? Of the two of us?"

"I'm not a fan, but I'll cope. Can you accept _our_ dynamic?"

"Which you think is..?" Varric says evenly.

"He's important to me. More important than you'll ever be. And I clearly mean something to him. Will that be a problem for you?"

Varric studies Fenris for a long moment. "I can accept that as long as you realize that... he's agreed to allow me to set certain rules and boundaries in place." He shifts a little. "Given what job you'll be taking on, you'll notice if you haven't already. Are you familiar with D&S games?"

"Yes," he growls, narrowing his eyes. "Is that your angle?"

Varric raises an eyebrow. "Dare I ask what you've read about it? Because if you reference Fifty Shades or Twilight, I will cry."

Now the dark-skinned elf sneers. "Forgive me if I don't find the humor in your wanting to _beat_ and _whip_ my— my Garrett," he snarls. "I've had rather enough of that this week."

"As opposed to how the two of you used to punch and throw each other around before fucking?" Varric cuts back.

He darkens a little, but doesn't waver. "Hate-sex isn't the same and you know it."

"Neither is S&M, which is what you described, not D&S."

"It's all the same. You want your own little pet you can beat when he's bad and fuck when he's good."

"Stone cracks, save me from— no. That's the worst— There's a word for that kind of Dom; abusive. D&S isn't about power or control at its heart. It's about trust."

"How can power games not be about power?" he growls.

_How to explain this?_ "...you ever worked out in a gym with someone? Weightlifting?"

"Sure. Now and then."

"Ever spotted someone while lifting? It's the same kind of trust in a way. The idea that you've got someone with you, guiding, supporting, as you go." He blows out a sharp breath. "That doesn't really cover it, not really. But... The only power a dom has is the power their sub gives them. The only power a sub has is the power the dom promises to return. Trust."

"I don't ask someone to order me around while I weightlift," he growls.

"True. But he _has_ asked me to do so in his day to day. You can talk to him about it, without me around. And..." Varric sighs, expression weary. "Pretty sure the... I'll go with sex-dungeon aspects are going to be on pause for a month or so at least. Flashbacks and such."

Fenris purses his lips together in a thin line. "Good."

"Any other questions or issues to work out while we've the time and space for it?"

"I don't know that I approve of this... thing, you're doing. I'll be keeping a close eye on Garrett." A pause. "Also you don't stock soymilk. This is a problem."

Varric blinks. "Oh. Uh. There's a terminal in the kitchen, program called KoziKorrected. Shopping list, meal planning and event scheduling and such. Go ahead and put whatever you need on there."

"Fine." He stretches, then, going up on the balls of his feet a bit to give himself more of a stretch before he settles. "I look forward to his return."

* * *

_The acrid smell of singed flesh, the distant sound of his own screams, the pain, a world of pain, he's falling, the collar's on him and he can't get loose, he can't get free, he's trapped, burning, burning—_

Garrett bursts from his restraints, landing hard on the floor. He rolls as he does, awkwardly, not having prepared, but he gets up to his feet, reaching for the well of mana inside him— not finding it— _the collar_ — he runs, rips the door open, nearly trips over something large and furry just outside the door, stumbles into the wall opposite. He spins, lifting his fists, ready to fight, ready to—

to—

but nobody comes after him. He finds himself face to face with a big black mabari, panting. He lowers his hands a smidge, then cringes as the beast moves closer, slowly reaching out to lick him on the cheek.

"Barkspawn," he whispers, shuddering. "It's okay, boy. Just a nightmare." _Maker. It felt so real..._

He shakes his head. _I just need to clear my mind._ He limps to the kitchen, microwaves a mug of water, drops an herbal teabag into it. He sinks into a chair at the table— _"What the fuck were you thinking?!"_ — rises again, cupping the mug in both hands as he paces the kitchen. _I'm just restless. It's two AM. Of course there's ghosts in my brain. There are always ghosts at two AM._

He glances over at Barky, wincing as the mutt's deep, soulful eyes seem to be peering into him. The mabari whines, and he flinches again. "I'm fine. Really."

The dog gives another whimper, cringing a little.

"Alright, I'm not _fine_ fine, but it's just— this is normal. Part of healing."

He can't pace for long; the pain worsens in his leg with every step. _At least that healing in the cop car mended the worst of the breaks,_ he tells himself. _But I'm still not meant to be standing long._ Belatedly, he thinks of the wheelchair he'd been sent home in, folded up neatly in the closet, and the crutches from his last accident, still tucked away. _I need to get back to sleep. But..._

_"Your problem, my problem." Varric._

He hobbles back down the hall, still clutching the mug, and lets himself into one room he's never been in: the master bedroom suite. _I just hope he doesn't sleep in the basement._

Whether he normally does or not, the dwarf has clearly slept up here tonight; his soft snores permeate the room. Garrett limps into the unfamiliar space, nearly stubbing his toe on a wooden end table before he finds his way to a recliner tucked into a corner, next to a bookshelf. _This will work_. He sinks into it, sprawling a little in an effort to get comfortable, and sips his tea. _I'll just stay here until I fall asleep. We can talk about other plans in the morning._

* * *

Barkspawn's head lifts, ears tucking back as new sounds mix with Varric's snores: rapid breathing, a low moan of fear, both coming from the armchair next to the rapidly cooling mug of undrank tea. Whining, the mabari jumps onto Varric's bed, pawing at the dwarf twice.

A sharp sting gets a yip from Barkspawn, who has enough time to give the dwarf a low growl, a sad whine and a pointed look at the corner of the room before passing out. Varric blinks a few times, the rest of his brain trying to catch up to the implants. "...Fei?" he mutters, his 'compromise' in regards to the mabari's name. He absently tugs the dart out of the canine's flank _(body mass, metabolism, wake in roughly twenty to thirty minutes, thirsty)_ and looks over at... "Shagua? The fu-"

Rubbing his face, Varric slips out of the bed, not bothering to get a robe. Which is fair, as he wearing a fresh suit of skin-tight body armour and thus hardly indecent. Well. Everything is covered anyway. _Why the hell is in here (how the fuck did I not wake up?) at three oh six in the morning? And having a nightmare (reschedule that oversight meeting back two hours, this might run long) by the look of it._ Padding over to Garrett, he starts to hum softly, just a random lullaby from his childhood, then starts to sing very softly. _Let him hear my voice for a bit._ After a minute or two, he reaches over to take Garrett's less injured hand.

As soon as their fingers touch, Garrett grabs Varric's hand, clinging to it tightly. Slowly, the wrinkle in his forehead vanishes, as his face smooths out, his breathing slowing. He doesn't wake, not quite, but he rouses just enough to know Varric is nearby, he's not alone, he's safe, protected. His tortured mind releases him, dropping him deeper into slumber.

Varric purses his lips, looking around. _I'm not sleeping sitting against the sofa._ After a moment, he nods. "Garrett, time for bed," he murmurs gently, not raising his voice at all. He gives the other man a moment, then slips an arm under Garrett's legs.

Garrett doesn't resist, rolling his head slightly to rest on Varric's shoulder. "Mustang," he mumbles, still sleeping.

Varric has to laugh at that, though he keeps it low. "Yes, yes you are. Stupid, proud, passionate and wild. Wo de yema." _My mustang_. "But it's time for bed, sha yema." With a soft grunt, he lifts Garrett from the sofa, supporting him under the knees and shoulders.

"Yours," he adds, as he's tucked into bed. There's a moment where he shifts, reaching out, and it seems he will wake, but once Varric climbs in next to him, he just grabs Varric's arm and settles back into bed.

He doesn't wake again until morning.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett was kidnapped by Templar and almost made Tranquil before Varric, Mal, and others came to his rescue. Garrett's home from the hospital now, but he's struggling to get his equilibrium. Last night, he woke up with nightmares, before finally passing out in the chair in Varric's bedroom in the hopes that being near his special someone will help him sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sex, foot worship, cops, PTSD recovery

When he does wake, it's because his need for rest, _real_ rest, has subsided enough to be outstripped by the pain in his legs. He whimpers into the pillow, shifting a little. _Pain._

He reaches out, fingers brushing against warm fur — _fur??_ — and his eyes open. _Barkspawn? But my bed's not big enough— where am I?_

Fear courses through him, and he sits up in a bolt, looking around wildly. _Varric_ , he notes, spying the dwarf and his laptop in a chair beside his bed. His heart slows a little, and he takes a deep breath, then another. _I'm in... Varric's room?_

"Morning," Varric says quietly, looking back at Garrett. He finishes reaching over to rest a hand on Garrett's arm, the same as he's done a dozen times this morning whenever he had started to grow uneasy in his slumber. Or whenever Varric had wanted to confirm that Garrett was right there. Safe and alive. "Water bottle and painkillers on the nightstand behind me."

"Bless you," he whispers in relief, reaching for the water. He pops the pills first and foremost, chasing them with a long swig of water before he settles back against the headboard.

"How did I..." he asks, then, frowning slightly. _I remember... Barkspawn. And... tea?_ He glances across the room at the chair, noting the mug on the bookshelf beside it. _Yes, tea. But how did I get into Varric's bed_? "I hope I didn't wake you last night," he begins, still frowning.

"No you don't," Varric cuts in.

Garrett glances over in surprise. "I don't?"

"You don't," Varric confirms. After a moment, he takes pity on him. "Because you're a smart young man, and you've been told repeatedly that you're supposed to ask for help and come to me when you're hurting or in trouble. So of course you hoped I would wake up and help last night."

"Oh," he says quietly, lowering his gaze. "I... I did. I did remember that. But... you were asleep and I thought... maybe if I was near you, I'd calm down. So I thought I'd try that. And it must have worked, because here I am."

"...getting there," Varric allows, smiling a little. "But no, you kept having nightmares if I wasn't touching you. So."

He looks away. "I dreamed you saved me," he admits. "I dream that a lot. It seems to be the only dream that doesn't end badly."

"We did save you. Not... fast as I would have wanted. By a long shot. But... you're safe. We got you. And Arthur and your dad are demolishing what little case Mangy Dip had against you."

He nods. "The other dreams... they end badly. I, I had a nightmare last night— well probably a few of them— they kind of bled together— I almost hit Barkspawn, I was scared he was a Templar coming to—" He shakes his head. "I didn't know what to do. I needed sleep."

"You did right. You got some tea, you came to me." Varric wrinkles his nose at the rhyme. "You did good." Varric hesitates. "Would... do you want to, uh, skip the first third of the night next time?"

He blushes, swallowing. "Uh. I mean. If it's not too much trouble," he admits.

"I wouldn't have keyed you to my door if I wasn't willing to have you here," Varric says, looking back at his laptop.

_I barely even noticed the reader_ , he marvels, but thinking back, he did press his hand against the wall, just like he does to his own room. _Stupid. What if he hadn't? But he did— did he want me in here? Why? I'd have thought, given how private he can be... and how long ago did he add me?_ He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. "Thanks," he manages. "Uh, I may have overdone it some last night."

"Of course," Varric murmurs, pleased that Garrett seems to catch the weight of what was just said (and more, what was implied) then frowns. "Legs or ribs?"

"My legs. I like to pace, I didn't... I didn't grab the chair," he admits.

"If I get you a wheelchair with flames on the sides and a horn, will that get you to actually use it?" Varric asks in a completely serious tone.

He smiles, though it doesn't last long. "I woke in a dead panic, I wasn't exactly..."

"Well, shifting rooms with solve that at least," Varric points out.

"I hope," he agrees. "Thanks. I— Just, for all of it. Thank you."

"You're welcome. And thank you." Varric glances over at Garrett briefly, then back at his laptop— though the mage doesn't get the impression he's being ignored or even bothering Varric.

"Me? For what?" he asks, blinking.

"...for being my friend. For... For adding something— several things— to my life I didn't even realize I was missing."

Garrett smiles, then, a small, genuine smile. "You're welcome," he says quietly. "So. Breakfast," he adds, a moment later, in a louder tone.

"Breakfast is good." Varric hesitates. "I'll pm Fenris to grab your chair, then'll we all get something to eat." 'Something' he says, despite them both knowing he has an exact meal planned out.

Garrett makes a face, but doesn't argue. "Yeah, alright. But we should circle back to that whole flame-chair thing."

_Given how often you seem determined to end up hurt (too often), that seems wise_. "Birthday is only a few months off," Varric comments idly as they wait for Fenris to show up with the chair.

"True," he agrees. "When's yours, by the way?"

Varric hesitates. "Don't really celebrate them," he hedges.

"What, at all?" He frowns. "Why not? I mean, I'm sure Dad would like, buy you a beer or whatever..."

"..went long enough without anyone to celebrate them with, then didn't have much to celebrate..." He shrugs a little. "Just don't get around to it really."

"Would you want to? If— I'd like to, you know. Celebrate. With you."

"What did you have in mind?" Varric asks, body and tone very, very relaxed.

"Shit, I don't know. Dinner? A beer? Sex? My birthdays are pretty hellish these days so I'm good with easy if you are."

Varric frowns slightly, glancing over at him for a moment. "Hellish?"

He reddens a little. "You know. Mother throws a party," he admits. "I wonder if Marian will even come back for it this year?"

Varric starts to answer, then snorts out a laugh. His face reddens as he tries to stop more slipping out. Garrett raises an eyebrow, looking over at Varric. Varric clears his throat. "Sorry. Just— well. Terrible idea, absolutely. Absolutely stupid. Just.... picturing everyone's face— particularly your family— if you walked into the ball on my arm."

He grins, chuckling a little. "If you order me to, sir," he teases.

At the doorway, Fenris clears his throat, holding up the folded wheelchair. "If you're _quite_ finished making sappy eyes at each other," he says with a scowl.

_Jealous much?_ Brushing that thought aside, Varric rises to get Garrett up and out to the kitchen.

* * *

Breakfast is simple enough; oatmeal with fresh fruit and hard-boiled eggs. As the meal winds down, Varric clears his throat. "You had some questions, a couple of concerns, for Garrett?" he hints pointedly to Fenris.

"I did," he says coolly. "Concerns best expressed in private."

"Anything you have to say, Varric can hear," says Garrett. "What's going on?'

"I'll start the washing up." Rising to his feet, Varric begins collecting finished dishes. Of course, given they ate in the kitchen, he won't exactly be going far.

Fenris lowers his voice, turning his back to Varric to try and prevent lip-reading. "Garrett. Is he forcing you into this? This... dominance thing?"

Garrett reddens slightly. "What? No. Of course not!"

"I don't like this," he growls. "You don't know what these people are like. I can send you some links, some... information."

"I think I know what I'm getting into, thanks. And it's none of your business," says Garrett, tone cooling.

Fenris takes half a step back, his expression darkening. "Of course not. My mistake. Enjoy your afternoon." So saying, he turns to stalk toward the bedrooms.

"Oh for the love of—" Varric pivots and mutters to himself at the sound of Garrett's rather testy rebuff. "Garrett, he's just worried. Maybe actually explain to him instead of treating him like your mother? Fenris, remember this is Garrett." A beat. "And thus a bit stubborn about people caring about him."

"No, he's right. If I'm to guard him it's best we not have a personal relationship anyway. As Garrett has made abundantly clear we do not."

"Maker!" exclaims Garrett. "Fen. It's fine. This is _Varric_. He's not some predator, he's not doing anything to me I don't want him to. Alright? And I still— I still care for you a good deal. Things are just... different, now."

"Garrett, while I appreciate the support, keep in mind that Fenris doesn't know me really. Look at it from his point of view." He shrugs a little. "My first impression of him was the mystery friend that got you into street-racing, cage-fighting, lyrium and shoot outs. There was a lot of context missing in all of that but I didn't know nor much care at the time." _Still don't consistently._

Garrett takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fen. I don't—"

"My name is _Fenris_ ," he snaps. "Don't try to cajole me with nicknames. You've made your choices already."

Garrett sighs. "Fenris, then. I still... My feelings haven't changed. But Varric has a point: being with you was hurting me. I still want to be friends. I still care about you. The only difference is that Varric calls the shots now. He's so much better for me—"

"Than I am?"

"Than I was doing for _myself_ ," Garrett presses on, ignoring the intrusion.

"What am I to think? First Anders, now this?"

"Varric isn't like Anders. You know that, or you would never have taken his Blue. Don't even try to pretend it's the same thing."

"But in both cases you made it abundantly clear that you were choosing your new toy over me."

"Fine," growls Garrett. "You want to look at it that way, yes, I chose Varric over you. He asked for exclusivity and I chose to grant it. I love you, Fenris, and what we had was great, but I need something more now, and you're not in a place to give it to me. Grow up and get over it, or leave, but don't sit here stewing about it. Okay?"

Varric stays quiet, letting them work this out for now. _Not... exactly exclusive, given Leliana... but at the same time (would you be okay with him and Fenris together?) that's... Hrrrm._ Still, he doesn't speak up. _I feel... uncomfortable with this, with how this is going but... fuck._

"I can see how much I truly matter to you," begins Fenris.

"Shut the hell up, I got _shot_ for you, man! Sometimes you're not number one. You have to learn to deal with that."

Fenris is silent for a moment, regarding Garrett. After a moment, he looks away, taking a deep breath, trying visibly to calm himself. A moment after that, his hands relax out of the fists he wasn't aware he was making, and he hangs his head.

"There are so few people in this world I can trust," he says quietly. "I'd hate to see you get hurt."

Garrett's expression softens. "I know, Fen."

"I have three friends in the world," Varric says softly. "Mal, Gerav, and now Garrett. I get how precious that is. I would rather die than cause him real hurt. I swear it, Fenris."

"But you want to—" Fenris breaks off his thought, turning to face Garrett again. "You don't know what you're getting into. I've seen what they do, these people. Not porn, real vids."

"Whatever you saw, this isn't anything like it." Garrett sighs, turning to address Varric. "Can he watch? Next time we... tangle?"

Varric tenses, jaw clenching. "Let me— let me think on that," he says carefully. "I..." Varric reaches up to rub his temple. "I'm a very private person, that's not..."

"I think it would help him, to see that it's not... whatever it was he saw on the internet."

"Fucking internet," Varric mutters darkly, scowling at the floor. "Let me think about it," he repeats. "Maybe... maybe remotely. We'll see."

"Oh, did you make a recording of last time?"

Fenris scowls. "I don't know that I _want_ to see... whatever it is you're up to," he snaps.

"It's not like that, Fen, it's really not."

"...what _are_ you imaging we do?" Varric asks slowly.

"The stuff I've seen looked like— like a torture chamber," he says, making Garrett flinch.

"Worst we've done— hell, the 'worst' I've ever done with hit someone with a soft flogger. Doesn't even break the skin. Bruising is all," Varric says, attention snapping to Garrett.

Garrett nods. "It's not... There's some hardcore stuff out there I guess but we're not doing that stuff. It's safe, Fen, I swear. Just some spanking. Nothing... hell, nothing worse than you and I have done."

"I don't get off on your pain," growls Fenris. "I just..."

Garrett manages a lopsided smile. "Just enjoy a bit of rough sex? It's the same thing."

"Not really about causing _pain_. If he didn't enjoy it, neither would I," Varric supplies.

"Since when do you enjoy pain?"

Garrett looks away. "We— it's— nevermind. Just... I don't want to talk about that right now."

"Again, rough sex," Varric points out. "Nothing wrong with it."

Fenris peers closely at Garrett, then frowns, pulling back. "Garrett... are you still comfortable with this? After what happened?"

"Yes," he says instantly, but he doesn't meet Fenris's eyes. Nor Varric's.

"I'm not," Varric says bluntly. "The... more mundane aspects, fine. But the harder stuff? I'm going to need some time before I'm comfortable doing that." He looks at Garrett. "Been years since I had a lover. I'm fine with waiting until it's... comfortable."

Now Garrett looks at Varric. "What? What does that mean? You won't— like we did before, even?"

"I couldn't hit you right now, even in a spar," Varric says in a low voice. "There's... other stuff we can do, but not that. No bonds or blows, as they say." He winces, stomach churning at the idea of not just _seeing_ one of Garrett's flashbacks and panic attacks, but _causing_ one.

Garrett chews his lower lip, swallowing hard. "Varric I'm— I'm fine, really. I'll be fine."

"You will be," Varric promises. "But— please. Let it... let it heal first. I couldn't..." He swallows. "I would... prefer not to risk... causing a setback. Please."

"I'm _fine_ ," he hisses. "I just... the hospital was... I'm fine now."

"Slept in your own bed last night and everything," says Fenris with a small sneer. "Stop kidding yourself. Let it heal. Isn't that what you always told me? It's alright to not be fine."

Varric studies Fenris, glad to have something else to focus on. "Keep that up and I might think you're not a bad influence on him anymore," he says with a smirk of his own.

Garrett frowns, looking up at Fenris. "But I am fine. Nights are... hard. But otherwise, it's not that big a deal. Scary, sure, but not that big a deal. Nothing like what you went through."

"Not a competition," Varric scolds him. "There's no rush, so why not take the time to heal properly?"

"I am healing!" he says, gesturing down at his lap, at the chair he's sitting in.

"There's more to healing than just flesh and bone, Garrett."

"I— I know that," he says, looking away. "But it's not that bad. I'm fine. I could take it."

"You can hardly take anything in a wheelchair," says Fenris. "Unless you're proposing to get up and fight me now?"

"Garrett... what are you worried about? What's the problem you're trying to fix or prevent?"

"I— I don't want to lose this. What we— this." He hesitates. "And I—" Here he glances to Fenris, trying to figure out how to put things into words.

"...you've seen me throw up, repeatedly," says Fenris, with a dark tone. "Is it really so impossible that you could seem to need help in front of me?"

Garrett says nothing. Fenris turns away. "I see."

"Been trying to be strong for him for a while now," Varric observes.

"I _am_ strong," he says quietly. "Fen. It's— I'm really not that bad off."

"No," he says bitterly. "It all makes sense now: you're so weak and need so much help as to turn your life over to a near-stranger to run, and yet so strong you never need help from me. Yes, clearly that is a story that isn't fabricated in the slightest. Just admit you don't trust me enough to be weak in front of me. We may as well dispense with the polite fictions."

Garrett is quiet for a long moment, then says, "I— I keep having panic attacks. Flashbacks. I'm a mess, Fen. But I didn't want to burden you with that."

_Near stranger? Known him for over a decade... Not all that well, sure (glad of that, glad I was never Uncle Varric to him given...) but still._ "Better to share your pain than to lie to his face. You're the only person in the world he trusts. Don't betray that out of pride or pity."

Garrett glances down at his lap. "Is that how it works? Is that what my dad is like? You help someone, they come to mean everything to you, so you dump your bullshit problems on them?"

"This isn't bullshit, Garrett," says Fenris, with a sigh. "Most of your problems might be, but not this. This is important."

"It is. There's nothing to be _done_ about it. I just have to ride it out, wait until it goes away."

"It's not about— look. You have every right not to tell Fenris— or me or Juanita or whoever— whatever you don't want to. But if you're going to lie to us about being fine, going to hide problems and issues, then..." He shrugs a little. "That's a betrayal. Do if you want but be aware of what your actions are and what they mean."

Garrett rakes his hands through his hair. "Alright," he says, after a moment. "I just... I'm just tired of all this shit. Of losing things. I liked what we had. I don't want to lose it. Not over something as stupid as the Church."

"It's not stupid or bullshit. Shagua, they _kidnapped and tortured you_. Stone cracks, Garrett, that's a massive 'something' and not—" Varric tosses the dish towel to the side, stepping closer to Garrett. "It's going to take time, yes, but you don't just 'ride it out.' Not something this painful. You're going to need to deal with it. And we want to help." He pauses. "We need to help."

Garrett glances up, looking tired, sad. "How? How do I make this better?"

Varric stares a moment. "Well... first things first, I figure we need to make you feel safe. So... you can keep bunking with me. Fenris... are you still interested in...?"

"Yes," the elf replies firmly. "I will take the position as Garrett's bodyguard."

"Garrett?" Varric prompts his... lover, wanting to be sure he's fine with this idea.

"My... bodyguard?" the mage asks slowly. "When was this decided? I don't— how are you going to guard me at work?"

"I made the offer a few days ago," Varric replies. "And I'll get him a new ident— not fake, a real one, just... inaccurate. Can't dye his hair, but I suggested trimming it down and wearing a wig; he's looking into extentions or braids. Even just putting him in a tailored suit and some sunglasses would drastically change what people see when they look at him."

"...how will I get anything done? What am I going to tell Dale at lunch?"

Varric coughs a little. "Dale is... aware," he says blandly. _Guess now is as good a time as any..._ "And so is... pretty much everyone. Your kidnapping made the news in a big way, I doubt a tenth of StoneSure has missed seeing your face and name by now. Sorry."

"I— what?" Garrett stares at him a moment, then wordlessly pulls out his phone, checking his messages on both Sending and Wire. He's got...Damn. Twenty-six from his mother, all from before his rescue, thirty-eight from Beth between email, Sending and Wire (so roughly four an hour since he was rescued), seventeen from Carver (all in a burst), two from Juanita (both last night and just casual stuff) and one from Dale this morning asking if he can use Garrett's office for naps (not 'naps' though, that'd be over the line). And some seventy or so messages from assorted other people, all asking about this health (and for gossip).

"Maker," he sighs again. "This is going to be a bit. Sorry." Wincing a little, he dials his little sister's number, trying not to feel the brief pang of... whatever it is that he's feeling upon realizing none of them are from his own twin.

"Garrett!" The first word is shouted in his ear, the next muffled as if the phone was moved away. "Sorry Mister Alits, need to take this!" Oh shit, what time is... yep, she's in the middle of class at her drama camp. Oops. A brief flurry of movement and Beth is back on the line. "Garrett! What— are you alright? We can be home tonight," she babbles.

"I'm _fine_ , Beth. Got out of the hospital yesterday, I'm at home resting. Sorry, I wasn't checking my phone until this morning. Didn't Dad fill you in?"

Fenris scowls, leaving Garrett to make his call as he heads for the gym. _We'll talk this over again later._

"You're _not_ fine, you _can't_ be fine, you were— I read that—" _That you were Tranquiled. I thought— my big brother— But Dad did call and— and you sound..._ "What did— how did this— How does someone other than you say you're doing?" A beat. "Pretend that had grammar."

"Beth. I'm really okay. It was... terrifying," he admits. "But I didn't die and they didn't Tranquil me and so I'm going to be fine. Everything else heals in time, right?"

_Tranquil._ The word rips a shudder out of her, making Beth look back at the door to the backstage area. "I— I guess. I just... Can we video chat tonight? I'm probably going to lose my phone for this..." _Probably won't get in trouble, not if I play it right. My brother was— was— okay, not going to need any acting to be upset when I get yelled at._ "But, umm, I have my laptop. I need to see you." Also from the Amell company of course.

"Maker, I'm sorry, I didn't check the time — I got your messages and I called right away," says Garrett. "Yeah. We can video tonight. Or whenever, I'm obviously on sick leave from work right now so just hit me up when you're free."

"Alright," Beth says softly. There's a short pause, then, voice somewhat tentative, "so... I texted Mom and she said you were staying with Uncle Varric?"

"Uh, yeah, just for a bit. It's a thing, he's... he was staying with me at the hospital, so, it's hard for me to sleep without someone nearby, and obviously mom's really busy and all," he rambles. "It's fine. He's being real accommodating. Hired me a bodyguard and everything."

_Since when is Mom busy? I mean, with actual things?_ "Suuuure," Beth says slowly. "You're being weird you know. Like you're hiding something. Are you really staying over Uncle Varric's or did you just tell Mom that?"

"I really am. I'll put him on if you want," he adds.

"Maybe tonight, I just... I'm just glad to hear your voice still being your... voice," Beth says, voice cracking. Clearing her throat, she hurries on to ask, "so what's it like? He never invites people over ever. I've only ever been in the front yard and the living room..."

"It's pretty normal," he chuckles. "Aside from the three basements. He's got a whole survival bunker down there, it's wicked cool."

"...wow," Beth says after a moment in which he can _hear_ her roll her eyes. "Boys. Do you two play games in his man-cave? Sorry, 'survival bunker?'"

"Oh yeah," he says, smirking. "All kinds of games. Smash, Formula 1, NHL..."

Beth snorts, the bands around her heart slowly loosening. _He's okay. He's really okay. Uncle Varric is taking care of him. He's going to be fine_. "Right; fighting, racing and sports, the trifecta of boy-stuff." Candycrush and Farmville are more her thing. "You're sure you're... I can come home if you want me to. Carver too. I know someone who'd drive me to the airport and I can get us both tickets..." _Once anyway, unless Mom somehow misses the charge._

"No way, Beth. I'm fine. You sit tight and focus on your studies— I heard you got a C in Algebra last semester?"

Beth wrinkles her nose. "Yep!" she says breezily, deliberately misunderstanding. "Last math course I need to take to graduate. Right on course for a C+ actually." _I'm going to art school after this, what do I need math for anyway?_

_"Beth,"_ he warns her. "You know that's not acceptable. Do we need to get you tutoring? I want to see a B at least." _Maker, I sound like my father. Oh well._

"But I only _need_ a C," Beth counters. "And I could put the time and energy needed to getting a B into something useful." _Like singing. Or learning another instrument. Or script writing. Or parties. Margaritas. Kissing. Dancing. Hell, doing my nails._

"You won't be able to get into the top schools if you don't bring your GPA up. You know Mother will be disappointed if you end up having to go to community college."

A long pause. "I... what if..." Beth bites her lip. "What if I don't? Go to college?" _Now? You're going to tell someone now_? She's told Carver, of course, but Beth tells him everything. Wanting to go to an art school instead of an university is the least of the Three Big Secrets she's told her twin, her other half.

Garrett pauses. "I'm... not going to tell you how to live your life," he says slowly. "But... Are you sure you can handle it? Going against Mom and Dad, pissing off the whole family? It's not easy."

"I want to go into theatre," Beth whispers softly. "Not just play at it, but really... I love singing and playing violin but I know I'm barely good at them. But... but I think I can write. Scripts, for plays. I don't know. I just... We can talk tonight, I just..." _I almost lost the chance to tell you._

"Can't you do that _and_ go to, I don't know, Yale or whatever? It's just... you've been off at boarding school for years. You haven't seen what it's been like, for Marian and me. Having Mother breathing down our necks, constantly disappointing Dad... it's hard."

"Well... I mean, yeah, Yale and Julliard are great, sure, but... they're in the UP. I was thinking somewhere... European. Or maybe... umm..." She hesitates. "I don't know," she backtracks, not able to mention Tevinter.

"Oxford seems like a great compromise," he offers.

"Maybe," Beth allows, though she doesn't sound convinced. _Carver wouldn't be accepted there either._ "Oh, uh, Mister Alits, hi. Yes, it's my brother, he's finally— I know it's the middle of rehearsal, but I needed—" She sniffles suddenly. "I just needed to hear him, be sure he's okay. I'm sorry for being disruptive sir." A pause, where Garrett can hear someone else talking. "Yes sir. Just— just let me say goodbye please?" Voice lowering, she clearly returns her attention to Garrett. "Hey, sorry. I have to go. I... I'm really glad you're safe now. Stay that way, just for a few months at least? Please?"

"I'll do my best. Practice your lines, and stay safe, alright Bethie?" He smiles, despite his stern words.

"Practice lines, stay safe, check," Beth replies, a hint of playful teasing in her voice. "Love you Garrett," she murmurs.

"Love you too, princess." He hangs up before she can get in more trouble, sighing as he scrolls through his messages. "Should probably message Nita back," he mumbles. "Ugh. What did the news say, exactly?"

Varric glances over his shoulder from the sink. "Mostly truth, light on details. Well, slanted to the bias of the source, of course. Everything from 'Violent Blood Mage Escapes with Kirkwall Guard Assistance' to 'Local Legend's Son Rescued from Templar Kidnappers.'

"Great. Wonderful." He sighs. "Real talk: should I go back to work? With all this shit hanging over my head? It just sounds like I'm in for a nightmare, with people thinking I'm some violent, dangerous blood mage."

"I think... I think, give it a week or two to blow over. You... Obviously, we need to finish dealing with the legal red tape but that shouldn't take more than the rest of the week. After that... you still interested in that week off?"

"Yeah, actually. That sounds perfect." He smiles.

"Then after that, we can talk it over, but yeah. I think you'll be fine to come back to work," Varric says with a smile, glad that Garrett is willing to still reach out to this dad. _Getting a second chance Mal. Don't fuck it up._

* * *

There was a time when Malcolm Hawke lived primarily on take-out Shirén, fast food, and instant noodles. It was a long time ago; these days, he takes much better care of himself, between his wife's chef and his business lunches. But eating take-out straight from the carton still provides that little hit of nostalgia, that bit of comfort in his lonely office.

He's not expecting a visitor, not at 7pm on a Friday night. He's certainly not expecting Captain Vallen to turn up at his office door, catching him with his takeout container and his laptop full of spreadsheets. He stands, putting the container down as he heads around to shake her hand. "Captain Vallen, what can I do for you?"

As Captain Aveline Vallen, widow of a Templar-initiate and current scapegoat for the Viceroy in regards to the political fallout of Garrett's kidnapping, steps out of the lift to the very top of the Amell Industries tower, she can't help but wonder why Malcolm Hawke is at the office at seven in the evening. _Evidently he's not as worried about his son as I thought. Can't believe I bought his act. Damnit. Should know better._

"I have some follow up on the... well, on all three still ongoing incidents involving your son. Paperwork, questions and some instructions, that sort of thing," she replies as she gives his hand a perfunctory shake. _Shirt's unbuttoned, no shoes on... Rather at home. Date-night with the mistress perhaps? Not a whiff of sex or booze..._

"Come in, come in," he says quickly, ushering her in— and buttoning his top button again once he's safely behind her back. "I apologize for making you come all this way, I'd have gladly met you at the station if you'd called," he adds, as he ushers her past his desk and to the bar area. _Let's just ignore the takeout container_ , he thinks, keeping his smile fixed on his face. "Can I fix you a drink?"

"I'm on duty," Vallen says, the words taking no more effort or thought than simply exhaling. "I was in the area," she adds, standing at attention near the desk for a moment. Then, realizing it looks like she's reporting to him, she shifts her stance. "Any preference on order?"

"Whatever order you like. At least have a seat; the workday's well over, there's no need to stand on my account," he adds, gesturing to the table with the view of the city as he fixes himself a scotch on the rocks.

"Very well. Given... recent events, combined with the lack of claim from the family and his voluntary participation in therapy, the judge ruling on Garrett's motorcycle accident has decided to offer a... settlement," she says, the words galling her visibly. "He's willing to waive everything but the reckless driving and speeding charges and offering a sentence of two thousand dollars and fifty hours of community service, along with six months probation. If he has a moving violation during that time, the original charges will be revived in full along with the new violation." As she speaks, she sets down a folder on the table. "All the paperwork for this is in this folder."

"I appreciate your bringing word, Captain. I assure you, the boy isn't likely to get on a motorcycle anytime soon. Nor has he been drinking." Mal takes a sip of his scotch, not bothering to open the folder.

"That would be best," Vallen says stiffly. "Then for the second. Clearly, the investigation into Garrett purchasing lyrium has been dropped." _Completely and utterly tainted. Maker be damned Templar. Law is Law, I don't care what symbol you have on your armour. But still... that white-haired elf..._

"Understandable, given the circumstances, though I would have preferred the investigation conclusively prove his innocence," says Mal, with a nod.

_I'm sure you would have. 'All charges dropped' isn't as respectable as 'found completely innocent of course' in your type of circles._ "Yes, well, given that—" Vallen stops herself, recalling that her current audience isn't one of her guard. Complaining that the damn Templar broke into two homes and beat up three people, thus utterly ruining any evidence we could get from those sources to Malcolm Amell— Hawke, whatever— is a terrible idea. "Which brings us to the... most recent incident." She pauses to gather her thoughts, wanting to do this properly.

Malcolm takes a sip to hide his shaking hand— though he doesn't do it well enough, given he spills a little on his shirt. "Blast. A moment, please," he says, putting down the cup and fleeing— no, exiting, surely— the room, heading for an interior door. _I'll grab another from the closet, and take a few deep breaths. Get ahold of myself._

"Take your time," Vallen calls after him, a touch taken aback by the look in his eyes. _That was..._ She frowns slightly, looking around the room again. _Shoes over by the inner door... pile of take out napkins by the desk... stack of mail on the table... What is going on here?_

Malcolm leaves the door open behind him, giving her a glimpse of a hallway, with two other doors further in. As she waits, a knock comes on the door to his office: a perfunctory double-knock, before a young woman enters, holding a package. "Mr Hawke, good news, those new linens arrived and— oh, I beg your pardon," she says, upon spying Aveline. The woman looks flustered, adding, "I'll just leave these here," as she drops the package onto his desk.

"He just stepped into the other room," Vallen says politely. "Can I pass on a message?" _New linens?_

"Oh, ah, sure, just, let him know his package arrived. I'll be cleaning the floor below if he has any questions." She smiles, backing out of the room. "You take care now."

"Of course. Carry on." Frowning, Vallen moves over to inspect the 'package.'

It does seem to be a postal mailer from a bed and bathwares company. That's about all she can tell before Mal returns, wearing both shoes and a different shirt. "Pardon the interruption. You were saying?"

_So he has two pairs of shoes here? At least two pairs_ , she corrects herself. _And now bed linens_. She glances at the package, judging the size, as she moves over to hand it to him. _Single sheets. Maybe twin, but no bigger. Not likely for a trysting bed then._ "Someone came by and dropped these off," she says neutrally.

"Oh, thank you." _I'll catch up with her later about laundry options_. "I'll run those back later."

Vallen hesitates, then a very short sigh slips out. _The Law cannot protect anyone, if it does not apply to everyone_ , she reminds herself. _And the same goes for those what would uphold it_. "Is everything alright at home?" Vallen asks gently, just the same as she would with anyone else she caught these hints about. Well, normally she would be a little more subtle about it, but she's off balance.

"Hmm? Yes, of course." He makes for his drink, lifting it as he takes a seat. "Why, have you heard some complaint?"

"No, that's not what— I just meant... you seem..." She hesitates. "My apologies, I did not mean to offend in this matter."

_Ah. This is about the drink._ "I cannot deny the situation with Garrett is... weighing on me, perhaps more than it ought. But, please, do continue."

"I think there's not really a 'more than it ought' when it comes to... well." Vallen smiles tightly. _I never got the chance to..._ "Children, no matter their age, are precious. The Viscount is still... mulling over options in regards to the Templar, but he has decided that Garrett is innocent of any charges of Blood Magic."

Malcolm's shoulders sag just a hair. "Good. That's good. I'm glad to hear it."

"While officially that settles the matter," Vallen adds after a moment's careful deliberation. "I feel— It could be that it might be... prudent for you and your son— your family perhaps— to be... circumspect around the Chantry for the foreseeable future."

"Understood, and appreciated. I make a habit of being circumspect around the Chantry ever since — well, I'm sure you're familiar with the rumors."

"Rumors are just that, rumors," Vallen says firmly. "Regardless, I have more to discuss if..."

"Please," he says, inclining his head to grant her the floor.

"Knight-Commander Stannard has been recalled to the Vatican for... a debriefing. However, she is very noticeably not being charged with anything, instead only receiving an official letter from the office of the Viscount that hints at a rebuke for unprofessional behavior." By her tone, the guard captain does not agree with this outcome

He narrows his eyes slightly, but his tone is professional as he replies simply, "I see."

Vallen studies him for a moment, then nods crisply when she decides that he does, in fact, see what she wanted him to pick up. "Very good then. Then for my last two reasons for being here. The first is to ask if you recognize this person," she asks, pulling out a seven by eleven color photo of a silver-white haired elf with a lean build.

He leans over, frowning slightly. "I do, but I can't recall where I've seen him before," he says slowly.

Vallen's eyes narrow. "Can you recall anything at all? It could help clear up some... loose threads." _If he thinks I mean the kidnapping... well._

He stares at the picture for a few moments, then slowly shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, regretful. "I'm not good with faces. Without more context, I'm not certain I'm going to recall. May I keep the photo? In case it comes to me?"

"Of course," she says with some disappointment in her tone, sliding the picture over to him. _Damn. Still, maybe it'll bear fruit later_. "Thank you. You have my card, please contact me if you remember anything. As for the last issue..." She clears her throat. "This is actually not related to Garrett, to the best of my knowledge at least. Lady Jean Rutherford has filled a missing person's report for her daughter and directed the guard to speak with your family." She just... leaves that there, letting him react.

"I understand. I suspect you will wish to speak to my wife on that matter. Unfortunately, I have not spoken with the girl all week."

"...will I?" Vallen asks slowly, eyes narrowing. "Why is that?"

"When I last left the girl, my wife was with her, and I suspect she offered to help her get home. What happened from there, I cannot say."

Vallen stares a moment. "So... in response to..." She pauses, then sighs. "Never mind. I'll speak with your wife." Rising to her feet. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"No, I don't believe so. Do have a pleasant evening, Captain."

"To you as well," Vallen says, nodding before seeing herself out. _Well, that was... interesting. Playing cagey in the middle and end but... I would be willing to bet that he's living in his office right now. Which is... Why? Why now, when his family needs him more than ever? Unless... perhaps his wife blames him for some reason? His son seemed at ease with him in the hospital..._ As she rides the elevator down, she frowns and looks upwards towards the penthouse office, expression thoughtful.

Mal drains the rest of his scotch, slumping in his seat for a moment. _Maker. I'm glad that went well, but I'm pretty sure she suspected something was fishy. Still. My boy's safe, for now. Safe as I can make him. Though, speaking of safe—_

He lifts his phone, then, hitting speed-dial one and raising it to his ear. It takes three rings, an oddity that's explained by the real-quality voice that answers. "Mal, what's up?"

"Captain Vallen just left."

A slight pause. "Any... surprises in the visit?"

"Not really. The drug charges are gone. Meredith's getting off with a slap on the wrist, she'll be coming for us. The girl has been reported missing. We anticipated much of that."

"Missing? Last I heard, she's been moved into Marian's room," Varric says, tone very, very even.

"I may have let the good Captain know my wife was with her last I saw her," he says, sighing. "So I'm sure Lea will love me for that."

"Fine, upright citizen such as yourself could do nothing less than cooperate fully and honestly with the guard," Varric says piously. Then snickers. "Anyway. About the Chantry..."

"I'm all ears," replies Mal, staring out at the view across the city. _I hope he has a great plan to keep my boy safe._

"Well, first thing, I hired a full-time bodyguard for Garrett. One of the gents that was with us on that fishing trip, the quieter one. He gets along well enough with Garrett, and is well trained with CQC, armed and unarmed. Still working on a gun permit but it's in the works. Randolph Fenwalker, goes by Dolph and Fen... not that he talks to people often. Surly bastard, but dedicated. And hates the Templar and Clans both."

Mal sits up suddenly. "Fuck. White hair, dark skin, green eyes?"

"...yes?" Varric says, trying not to let his wince show in his voice. _Damn, didn't think he recall what Garrett's (ex) boyfriend looked like..._

"Vallen's gunning for him. She brought a photo to my office, but I couldn't place him out of context. I told her he looked familiar, but I'm rubbish with faces — which is true enough — and couldn't recall from where. When he turns out to be the new bodyguard, I suppose that'll explain it."

"Damn," Varric mutters. "Yeah, should be fine. Perfectly explainable, you having seen your son's bodyguard before. I'll warn him though, both of them." He goes silent, mulling that over and considering the next topic both.

"Just be careful. I have no idea where she got this picture."

_I have a suspicion (worry)..._ "Right. Did Garrett talk to you yet? About your trip?" _And I'm dam glad Garrett is still willing to go on that trip with you after what happened._

"Yes," he says with a smile and a bit more warmth. A moment later, however, both fade. "How is he doing, really?"

"That was what I was... I'd hoped he'd worked up the nerve to... He can't sleep by himself. He needs someone in the room, to give him the security that someone is watching over him. And to take his hand or reassure him if he starts to have a nightmare. Just... don't touch his forehead. At all, but especially if he's asleep," Varric says quietly, a kind of subtle but acidic hatred in his voice.

Mal pauses a moment to catch his breath, suppressing a shudder. "Not a problem," he says quietly, pushing away the dark memories as firmly as he can. _Later. Brood later._

"...Mal?" he asks quietly.

"It's fine. I can handle that; I'll sleep next to him. Anything else?" This is business Mal, professional Mal, but it's Mal who has his shit together at least.

"Hey. I already got one hard-headed fool that won't talk without being badgered and and scolded. Talk to me Mal." That's more direct and forceful that Varric has been in the past.

"Sorry," he says quietly yet firmly. "This is just hard for me. To see him like this. But right now, he's both of our top priority. Is there anything else?"

"I'm good at multitasking," Varric reminds Mal. Or maybe warns him. "But... you're fine with dogs, right?"

"Dogs are fine. He has a dog?"

"We have five dogs. Sorta. Four dogs and a mabari. Security upgrade, dogs can't be hacked. Barkspawn— blame your son— is the mabari and he's clearly bonding with him. Very protective and supportive, usually ends up cuddled up to him overnight."

Mal smiles a touch. "I still recall reading him The Archdemon Rises as a boy. His eyes were wide as saucers."

"...so it's your fault I had to register—" Varric huffs loudly.

Mal chuckles. "Perhaps. In any event, the dog should be fine."

"Good." Varric is quiet a moment. "Mal... his nightmares... they're bad. He tries to hide them but..." The dwarf swallows thickly. "Most of the time, it's... that they... finish."

Mal lets out a long breath. "I... suspected as much." _Don't touch his forehead. That alone— the site of the final brand—_

"He... he's starting to..." Varric stops, changes track. "Telling him he's safe, that we got to him, that he's fine, he can heal... That seems to work best. And holding his hand. But..." Varric pauses and Mal can hear a few clicks, the familiar pattern informing Mal that the line was just checked, double checked and triple checked for taps. "You know I keep an ear to the ground. And under it. Way under. I've come across rumors, hints and whiffs, that... there's a way to come back. Even if they had... finished."

"Ah," he says, letting out a slow, pained exhale. "There's no need. I know how it's done."

A long, heavy silence is all that greets him from the other end.

Mal swallows, closing his eyes as he rests his head back against the top of the chair back. "You know I was in the Circle," he says quietly. "But you've never asked how I escaped unscathed."

"No, I didn't," Varric says slowly. _Not directly. By the time I learned..._

"Well... I didn't," he says quietly. "A... friend, helped me. Taught me a technique. When I was myself again, I fled, never looking back. The brand fades if the changes are undone, even to magical sight. You can pass for someone who has never... but suffice to say I understand entirely what Garrett is going through."

"Stone to dust Mal," Varric breathes out, even as a part of him wonders if this was how Mal is the only one to discover magitech. _Ex-Tranquil mixed with genius and drive?_ "I... alright. If... I won't say how, but if he... _when_ he has another nightmare, I'll assure him that it's not the end of things. That even if... even if they did it, we'd get him back."

Mal hesitates for a long moment. "Tell him... Tell him I know how it's done. I'll teach him, when we're alone on this trip. That way if he has to, he can save himself. It's not a difficult technique to learn. Just unorthodox."

"Good. That's... good," Varric sighs out. _Why not release the information into the wild?_

"Yeah," he agrees. "...I'm sorry. I should have told you before, when we were on the boat. I just— I was hoping he wouldn't— that we wouldn't need to use it. It's not a perfect solution, it comes with trade-offs and costs and... it's better to avoid being caught at all."

"Of course," Varric says softly. "Is... are the... costs something that can be... mitigated? Maybe with preparation?"

"Yes, to an extent. I'm on medication to control the side effects, and will be my entire life."

Varric hisses softly. "Alright. So... yeah, not a Plan A." He takes in a slow breath. "Anything I can do to help?" _Best not be, or I'll slap the shite out of you for not asking sooner._

He smiles a touch. "No. I had this handled well before we met. It's just... challenging, to see my son go through something similar after all I've done to try and keep him safe."

"I... yeah, I can see that," Varric replies, imaging how he'd feel if it were Garrett with Fen's implants and trauma.

Malcolm takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "I suppose you never can keep children safe forever. And whether he acts like it or not, my son is an adult. He's bound to suffer some traumas in life— I just had hoped... well, I had hoped we were through the worst of it."

"Yeah," Varric says quietly. "He's... he's shaping up to be one hell of a guy. Never going to be a researcher or inventor like you but stone, Mal, he's thrice the businessman you are. Truth be told, I think he might rival me in a few years. Weaker in the numbers, stronger with innovation and..." He searches for the right wording. "Not social skills, we're both solid there, but... Morale reading and directing maybe? I guess it's that he can't see someone as an HR file, even for a moment. Which has some downsides to it but..."

"But he's amazing. Not one whit less amazing than Marian, for all he's worried about being left behind by her." Mal rakes a hand through his hair. "If it came to it, I'd die for him. To give him the chance to grow into his own."

"I was always more of a fan of 'kill for' rather than 'die for' myself," Varric says tightly.

"Sure, but that goes without saying. Kill for, cover up crimes, whatever he needs."

_Whatever he needs (tense, antsy), mmmh? Well..._ "You should think of something to gift him. Something to show you've noticed how far he's come." _And maybe I should— (nope, think of that after you're off the phone)_

"Anything but a motorcycle," he agrees. "I'll think on it. For now, my dinner's getting cold, so I'll let you go. I'll send over this paperwork in the morning."

"Still no bikes, eh? Well... Did you know they've invented personal use jetpacks?" Varric says brightly.

He laughs. "Goodnight, Varric."

* * *

As Varric walks out of his bedroom, his phone call ended, he finds Garrett just where he left him: playing games on the couch with Fenris. Of course, their positions have changed a bit; over the past half hour or so, under the pretense of shifting to ease strain on his injuries, Garrett's moved closer and closer to Fen, until they're nearly touching on the couch. Fenris, despite having space, hasn't moved away; their mild chatter has evolved into more lively trash-talk, and as Varric enters, Garrett's fighter is blown off the screen by a combo he declares "totally cheap, you motherfucker, just you wait, if that's how you want to play it."

Varric snorts near silently, but he smiles a little too. The pair had mostly mended things after their last fight— evidently that's a common pattern for the pair, something Varric can understand even as he plans up ways to address the problem. Taking a seat off to the side, he grabs a book and starts reading. Sure, he can get out his phone or even just link to the house's wireless but sometimes the weight and feel of paper is nice.

After reading for a few minutes, he grimaces, flexing his feet. _Fucking two hundred dollar (pieces of shit) pair of shoes and they pinch._ He starts to shift around so he can draw his foot up to rub it, then stops. _Hmmm. You know... why am I doing this (off the phone now) myself when..._ He waits a moment, until the pair finish their current match, then clears his throat sharply. "Garrett, come here," he says in a deep, commanding tone.

"One sec, I'm about to kick Fen's ass," he replies, without glancing away from the screen.

A pause.

**"Now."**

Garrett jams the pause button before he consciously realizes he's going to. "O-oh! Now-now?! Right, gotcha, yes sir," he stammers, stumbling over to kneel in front of the loveseat. _He'd said 'sometime tonight' but I assumed later. Wait, here? Now? In front of Fenris? Is that...?_

For his part, Fenris turns, drawing his legs up onto the sofa so he can watch more carefully. _He warned me what would happen: he'd demand some act of service, to be determined on the spot. Let's see how quickly he gives in to his baser nature._

Varric hadn't been up for talking to Fenris about some of the milder games in the D&S playbook, but he had worked up the nerve to email him some information. Some guidebooks, some how-to manuals, even some literotica in the genre, along with a post-script explaining that the covered material is all that is appropriate for couple containing someone that was recently traumatized. Fenris evidently hadn't been up for discussing it either, just sending back a reply of 'thanks.' More to confirm receipt than anything else, Varric had figured.

"Better," Varric says in a clipped tone. He studies the young man for a moment, then makes a 'tssking' noise. "But not by much. Why did you _walk_ over here?" he demands, giving the wheelchair a pointed look.

Garrett winces, hanging his head. "You said now, sir," he says quietly.

"First rule?" Varric asks just as quietly, though there's metal in his voice.

"My life belongs to you. I am to take care of it," he says with another wince. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll do better."

Fenris narrows his eyes. _Does it, now? Interesting._ And yet, he can't help but notice the second part as well. Some part of him asks if this is really that different than demanding the man eat vegetables, than his insisting Fenris take his lyrium. _It is, though. I don't demand his entire life._

Varric rises to his feet, wincing a little as he puts weight on the welt his hideous waste of money had caused. Getting the wheelchair, he pushes it over next to Garrett. "In." A pause. "And that's two strikes, so lose the shirt."

"Yes, sir," says Garrett, climbing into the chair before taking off his shirt in one smooth motion. He can't say he's looking forward to the new penalty system as much as the old— but then, perhaps it will be incentive toward good behavior.

Fenris studies Garrett's torso closely, now that it's exposed. _Bruising still looks nasty. Always does for a while as it heals. Are those burns on his chest? Yes; some sort of brand or— oh. Seals. I wasn't aware there was more than one brand involved in— best not to dwell on that at the moment,_ he reprimands himself, digging his nails into his palms as his hands form tight fists.

"Good shagua," Varric murmurs, running his fingers through Garrett's hair. He's careful to go from top to back, avoiding the forehead. Taking his seat back, he gives Garrett a look through partially closed eyes. "Back left pocket, on your chair," he says almost lazily.

Garrett's eyes drift half closed as he leans into the touch, though he opens them again at the command. He twists, reaching back to retrieve the bottle of massage oil he finds there; he lays it across both palms, offering it to Varric with his head bowed.

Instead of taking the bottle, Garrett finds a foot placed in his lap. "Take it off."

Garrett glances down at the foot in his lap, then, with a small smile, slowly works the shoe off Varric's foot. _Foot worship, huh? That's new._ He hisses a moment later, when he sees the forming blister. _That looks painful; no wonder he wants a foot massage._

"Continue. Slowly," Varric adds unnecessarily.

Garrett nods, squirting a bit of massage oil onto his hands, and rubbing them together to warm them and the oil. Then he begins, gently at first, letting Varric get used to his touch. He caresses the foot, spreading oil along it, being sure to get it between the toes, working some into the heel, all the way up to the ankle.

"Mmmh.... Heel more than toes," Varric murmurs, head falling back as he relaxes. _Not bad at this..._ The dwarf thinks drowsily.

Garrett focuses his thumbs on Varric's heel, slowly increasing the pressure as he does. He cheats a glance up to Varric's face every now and then, watching the relaxation seep into those tense corners of his eyes. _He's younger than he acts_ , Garrett realizes, seeing the dwarf less guarded, less in his element. _Younger than my dad. I thought they were close in age, but I was wrong. Still older than me, by a good margin, but... Adulthood is strange. There's less of a clear line between my age and my dad's age, now that it's not a matter of kids and adults._

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of Varric's foot, glancing upward to see how the dwarf responds. It takes a moment for Varric to rouse enough to speak. "No tongue," he mumbles and then falls silent, his only input on that given evidently.

_Fair enough_. He presses another kiss to the foot, then, and a third, working his way down toward the toes. He doesn't go for them right away; he kisses along the crease where his toes meet his foot, first from pinkie to big toe, and then back down. Finally, shifting his grip slightly, he takes the pinkie toe into his mouth, giving it a single, firm suck.

Varric hums, deep in his throat. "Leg too. Below mid-calf only," he adds, voice hardening briefly.

Garrett runs his hands up and down Varric's leg, gently working his thumbs in wherever he finds a tense muscle. His mouth continues to probe Varric's toes one by one, until he gets to the big toe, sucking on it gently. His tongue swirls around the tip, then, as he would the head of Fen's cock, teasing, probing.

The dwarf's foot jerks back, away from Garrett's mouth. Right afterwards, Garrett gets swatted on the head with— Did... did Varric just swat him with a folded up newspaper?

"Bad. No tongue," the dwarf snaps, glaring down at him with one partially open eye. "Start over and do it right this time. That's your third strike— one more and there's no reward at the end."

Garrett winces. "Sorry, sir, I forgot. It won't happen again."

And, true to form, it doesn't. He works on Varric's leg for a time, his mouth gently kissing and nibbling at his feet, sucking his toes, but his tongue stays firmly away from Varric's flesh. After a few moments more, he presses one last kiss to Varric's heel and asks, "Shall I do the other, sir?"

Not saying a word, Varric simply swaps feet. If not for his nonverbal response, he would appear fast asleep. Evidently, this is very, very relaxing.

Garrett lavishes the same gentle, thorough affection on the right foot as he did the left, carefully avoiding the blisters as he works. _This is... nice. Being able to do something for Varric, something to repay him for all he's been doing for me_. There's no doubt in Garrett's mind who sent the police in after him so quickly, who planted the lyrium on their boat; if it wasn't literally Varric, it was his plan and his arranging.

When at last he finishes with the other foot and leg, he tucks it back in place, resting the knee gently on the loveseat. _I wonder if he's fallen asleep?_

"Very good, my willful little mustang," Varric murmurs, eyes not opening a whit. "How do you feel?" _Stone cracks, it's a struggle to stay awake. That was... real good._

"Fine, sir," he says gently. "Pleased to be of service."

"Would you like a reward?"

He smiles. _What, a cookie?_ "Yes, sir."

"I have two, just in case the first... doesn't work," he murmurs. "You have permission to _ask_ if Fenris would like a foot rub as well." A pause "He can set his own limits for... how far up that goes and what you can touch him with." _As long as they don't break the rules I laid out for you a few days ago (no vigorous exercise, no kneeling, no jarring your legs or ribs)._

Now he perks up, his back straightening just a touch. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he adds, with more pep. Then he rolls his chair backward, turning to face Fenris, his dark eyes large and pleading. "Would you like a foot rub, Fen?"

Fenris had intended to say no. His feet don't hurt, and he's not particularly fond of having his toes sucked. Nor did he plan on doing _anything_ in front of that dwarf. But... seeing Garrett lavish that much attention on any part of Varric's body, seeing the careful, gentle strokes with his hands, and seeing the eagerness with which he turned toward the elf... it awakens something in Fenris' chest, something he didn't think would be interested in anything like this.

"No," he says, but with a mischievous smirk, he continues, "but you _may_ suck my dick if you can manage it without hurting yourself."

Garrett turns his attention back to Varric, silently asking permission.

"Your loss," Varric says, still dozing. "Garrett's got a fall-back career as a masseuse if he needs it." He starts to offer advice on positioning but stops himself. _They'll figure it out._

Taking that as permission— more from wanting it to be than any other sign— Garrett wheels himself over to Fenris, pulling up to the bend in the leather sofa where Fenris has made himself comfortable. He reaches up to unbutton the elf's tight jeans, slowly working them down to his knees, then gently coaxes his dark cock out of his boxers.

Eyes never leaving Fen's face, he slowly leans forward until his head is in the elf's lap, gently licking and sucking at the very tip of him. Fenris twines his fingers in Garrett's hair, shivering, as he glances to the dwarf. _Mine_ , he says silently. _Mine first, and mine still._

Then Garrett works Fen's cock into his mouth, taking him inch by inch, and he closes his eyes, leans his head back, and enjoys.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's well on his way to recovering from being kidnapped and tortured by Templar. Life continues on; his birthday approaches, with all the family obligations that brings. Will he be able to keep his head above water while navigating the cruel world of family politics? Stay tuned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Shitty families, awkward social situations, continuation of previous themes.

Malcolm and Garrett take their fishing trip, staying closer to the island than originally planned given the terms of Garrett's probation. Garrett only wakes screaming twice the whole week; true to his word, Mal spends each night close by in the master suite, holding his son's hand when need be to let him get the rest he craves. Between that and the mabari, he manages to relax a little.

He keeps the purloined lyrice collar on the whole week. It prevents him from learning any new spells from his dad, of course, but he hates to think what might happen if he has a nightmare without it.

He's not ready to go back to work yet, which means he has no excuse ready when his mother informs him that he's expected at The Major and Grandmère's estate for a birthday lunch. "And wear that new suit I got you," she had added. "At least you can make a proper showing, even if your sister refuses to return for the occasion."

"She's in Antarctica," Garrett had said, with a sigh. "Or on the way anyway. Some new research thing."

"I thought it was Greece?"

"I don't know, that fell through or something. She's not very forthcoming these days."

Regardless, he'd done as she said, his only rebellion bringing Fen along, in strictly professional capacity, of course. Fenris sits up front with the driver, sunglasses and wig firmly in place, leaving Garrett to stew as the car makes its way to Hightown and the family's traditional estate.

Unlike the newer, more modern design of the Hawke household, the Amell Estate screamed 'old money' from the rooftops. It features a proper English garden as a nod to their heritage; at one time, it had been the center of a plantation, though now a grand stable stood where the old slave house had been, and much of the fields had been sold to make luxury housing for the nouveau-riche the Amells looked down on.

The butler takes Garrett's overcoat at the door, ushering him (and guard) into the formal dining room where his parents and grandparents are already waiting — along with a stranger, seated at the foot of the table. _Not a great start_ , Garrett thinks, but he plasters on a smile anyway, giving a little nod of greeting. "Mother, Father, Major, Grandmère," he says, before moving to take a seat.

Major Aristide Amell, Kirkwall Militia, is a stout man, and a stern one; his hair may be salt-and-pepper grey, but his moustache is neatly trimmed, his clothing spotless at all times. Mrs Bethann Amell, his wife, is a lean woman, not a wrinkle on her botoxed face, nor so much as a single line to indicate she ever smiles. The Major sits at the head of the table, his wife to his left, with Leandra at his right and Malcolm on the other side of her. Garrett hesitates, recalling his etiquette lessons, then moves to side beside his grandmother, figuring it's less pretentious and preserves the alternating gender order. _Mother's in my spot_ , he thinks, but he doesn't bother saying it aloud. The only thing more gauche than taking the place of honor at someone else's birthday lunch is complaining about it. _Besides, she's probably the one being honored here anyway. Congratulations on birthing a child who lived to be twenty-four._

As briefed, Fenris moves to the wall behind Garrett's chair, striving to blend in; spying his sunglasses, his motions, every Amell at the table glances to him and then promptly ignores his existence.

"You're late," says Grandmère, with a slight sniff of disapproval.

"Traffic," he says, with an easy smile. "Couldn't be helped."

"Should have thought ahead, got proper intel and planned for the traffic," the Lord Major says, gesturing at Garrett with a half full snifter of brandy. "Father Winston got here right on time, like always. You remember Father Winston, I'm sure."

"It has been a few years; far too many," the priest says serenely. And Garrett does, vaguely, recall him from infrequent Sundays at his grandparents' church. Winston, aside from being a rather bland sort, is part of the Amber Chantry. Cut off from the Vatican by the Blight during the Dark Ages and most of the following century, the Chantry there had drifted. Desperate for faith and leaders, they had relaxed some rules; most significantly, allowing men to take vows. They can't rise very high in rank, even now, and their authority is dubious at best outside of western Europe and eastern Asia, but they make up more than a third of the rank-and-file clergy. "I would hope you have simply found another church to attend?"

"Yes," says Garrett, his tone clipped. He does not look at the priest, focusing instead on his father's face, eyes narrowing slightly. _You could have warned me._

Malcolm can't meet his son's eye, instead breaking eye contact by sipping his own drink. _I'm out of my element here. Just tread lightly._

"How are you feeling?" Leandra asks before her father or the priest can say anything else. "I still can't believe— Forgive me Father Winston, I mean no disrespect to the Maker or His Bride, but I can't believe those brutes and what they did to my dear boy."

"Now, now, Leandra dear," Major Amell says gruffly, reaching over to pat her hand. "The Templar are the good right arm of the Chantry— and thus the Maker Himself. Went a bit too far, I won't deny that, but they were just doing their duty as they saw it."

Garrett purses his lips together tightly. "Poorly," he admits. "I struggle to sleep. Nightmares, you see."

"Is that so? Some pills can resolve that," says his Grandmère. "Or perhaps you need the counsel of the Church?"

"My son is not a Blood Mage," Leandra snaps, pulling her hand away from her father. "And I will not hear anyone— _anyone_ — claiming otherwise. He has his faults and flaws, but he would never turn against the Maker's love that way."

"No-one here is questioning that," Grandmère replies. "The burden of magic is sometimes more than a man can bear. The Church has ways to help with such."

"We do indeed," Father Winston says with a warm smile. "It's regrettable that we have not yet been granted the right to create a proper Circle here in Kirkwall," his eyes flick to Malcolm, one of the main opponents to that in recent years, "but we have one in Haiti. Very well run. Knight-Commander Ensworth, good woman. Very devout, very wise."

"That's not necessary," Malcolm says, his voice cold. "My son has his magic well in hand, as you can see." He gestures to Garrett's neck, to the collar resting above his necktie. "He has chosen to forgo it, rather than risk using it in ways that do not serve mankind." It's just as well he speaks first; Garrett can't seem to manage words, his stomach feeling as though it were flooded with icewater. Instead he takes the glass of water at his place, sipping it, pretending to be merely thirsty and not terrified.

"A Circle? _Haiti_?" Leandra's eyes widen, then narrow. "Garrett is staying right here, at home, where he belongs." _With his mother_. "After all," she adds, turning to her father with a smile, "he can hardly marry and carry on the family line from— from elsewhere."

The Major purses his lips. _Was hoping she'd miss that— didn't have much hope the damn elf would, but easier to win if the enemy isn't united after all_. "Well, that would be the ideal," he says with a nod. "But better the Circle than... a terrible mishap. Good that he's taking steps but man alone cannot control magic. Need the Maker for that. Need the Chantry and the Templar."

"As you say sir." Winston looks back at Garrett. "You say you've been attending church. Regularly, I hope? A good, reputable church? I did ask around and none of the clergy I spoke with could claim you as one of their flock."

"I haven't recently, but I've been taking counsel with a retired priest— a Father Lelldorin," he manages, setting his glass down. "Quite regularly, since the recent trouble."

"Lelldorin... Lelldorin..." Winston purses his lips. "I can't say I know such a priest."

"Father Lelldorin Mandallous," Leandra says smoothly. "He was a chaplain with the twenty-first Templar company in Britain, retired due to an injury. A doctor now, as I understand, that has taken on a mentor role with Garrett." When the fuck did she learn all that? Since when does she even know Garrett is seeing a therapist?

"Retired Templar?" the Major says, his interest caught. "Injured in combat?" Leandra simply nods. "War hero, I'm sure," he mutters, pleased at the idea, stroking his moustache. "Well. That is reassuring. We'll have to met him, of course. Can't judge a man before you look him in the eyes."

"Of course," says Garrett.

There's a break here as servants bring in the first course: imported ahi tuna, wild rice, steamed vegetables. Simple, light fare; there's no need to show off, not home among the family, but the ingredients are far better in quality than most could afford. Garrett takes a few deep breaths, prodding at his fish with his fish fork. _I don't even like tuna that much,_ he reflects. _But it's not really about me, is it? This is about making sure I stop embarrassing the family with my antics. Got it._

As the fish course is removed and a refreshing cucumber gazpacho brought in— not showing off is one thing, not having a proper five-course meal quite another— Father Winston dabs at his lips and glances up and down the table. "I don't mean to be nosy, but should I be offering prayers of gratitude or pleas of assistance in regards to young miss Marian's absence?"

"Assistance, of course," says Grandmère. "Miss Marian is pursuing some research opportunity before she returns home to do her duty by the family." It's clear what her opinion of this 'opportunity' is by the tone of her voice.

"Chantry sponsored at least," the Major harrumphs. "Mage nonsense, but at least it's being properly supervised."

_I should warn her. She's likely to get in trouble because of me_. Garrett nods, mutely. _Let them talk about my twin for a while. I don't really want any more attention._

"Well... Marian's always been good about keeping her head down," Leandra allows. "I'm sure she'll be fine. Though I'm most put out she couldn't jet down for her birthday at least."

"Up." Her father shakes his head, chortling softly. "Never were a student of geography, Leandra dearie, eh? Suppose it's not a skill most civilians need," he says indulgently. As opposed to him, a proud veteran of the Kirkwall Militia as a full-time officer. Never mind that his family name bought him his officer rank. Or that the one time he saw combat, of any sort, was against a single half-trained Blood Mage of fourteen— and he was outside the house, while a full three squads did the actual fighting. That his record is scant of anything but political appointments and cushy administration jobs. He's a military man, who served his city proudly and would do it again if called.

"She needs to get her priorities in order sooner than later," says Grandmère with another sniff. "I would never allow such disrespect in my household."

"I'm sure she's just busy," Leandra says with a sniff. She doesn't care for anyone, even her own parents, bad-mouthing her children. But at the same time, Leandra doesn't exactly disagree.

Thankfully, the conversation moves on then to gossip about other people's children: a less contentious topic, though still one Garrett has little interest in. He remains quiet, contemplative, throughout the remainder of the meal, until they adjourn to the sitting room for after-lunch drinks.

"None for me, thank you," Garrett declines, a departure from his usual norm.

His grandfather, however, doesn't even seem to hear him and presses a tumbler of brandy into his hand. "Drink up now, just the ticket to help put the color back in your cheeks after being on medical leave," he says boisterously, having poured himself his third tumbler already. "We're all settled in? Good, good. Bethann my dear, would you like to go first?"

Garrett stares down at the drink in his hand, sorely tempted. _What's the harm? It's just a little brandy. And Maker knows I need it, after a day like today._

Malcolm sits beside Garrett, neatly plucking the tumbler out of his hand and placing it on the end table on the other side of him from the boy. _You don't need that._

Garrett shoots him a grateful look, then lowers his gaze to his lap. His grandmother hands him an envelope, smiling a tight, controlled smile. She barely waits for him to open the envelope before explaining what he'll find inside, tucked into the card: "I noticed your wardrobe has grown a bit threadbare, dearie, so I've booked us an appointment with my personal shopper. After, we'll take tea at the Crystal Empire teahouse; it's become quite the fashionable spot for the younger settee."

"Perhaps you might take a fancy to something other than clothes, eh?" his grandfather says with a chuckle, looking pleased at his own wit. "Well old enough to be settling down, my boy, well old enough. Shame the merger with the Rutherfords didn't work out but that's life. No plan survives and all that."

"That goes rather neatly with mine," Leandra says smoothly, not wanting to discuss that entire topic at all at the moment. She hands Garrett a small, flat box no bigger than a paperback. Inside are a small stack of tickets. "I got us tickets to see Les Mis, for some mother-son bonding, but I also got you four tickets to see the band you like, the one you have a poster of in your room at home."

This gift, unlike the previous, elicits a smile from Garrett. "Thanks, mom," he says quietly. "I look forward to the outing."

Leandra smiles back, pleased that he seems honestly interested. She had been tempted to get a cruise for them both, to compete with Garrett's recent trip with his father but... It just hadn't sat right in her craw, to do that. And, well, that her twin will be back in the next few days may have influenced her desire to be in Kirkwall for a while as well. "It's not for over a week, so you'll be able to wear your new clothes to it."

_To a rock concert? Oh, to Les Miserable._ Garrett nods. "Of course."

"Good, good. Bit of culture can smooth out some rough edges. But we shouldn't go that far into it, eh? No good risking turning into some limp-wristed nancy boy— beg your pardon Father," the major says, saluting the priest with his half-empty tumbler. "Have a catch lad." Warning given, he tosses a small box at Garrett, looking pleased with himself.

Garrett catches the box, blinking as he opens it to reveal a car key nestled into tissue paper. "A... car?"

"Noticed you've been hiring Ubers and the like— entirely unacceptable for an Amell! So I got you a proper vehicle. Good, solid Jeep, just the thing for a man your age. Oh, I know you liked your bikes and such, but it's well and past time to put away such toys." His grandfather nods firmly. "Yessir, a good, solid vehicle. Got a roll-bar, solid steel body, tread tires, diesel engine and a winch. Even made sure that a road kit was put in the back, make sure you're ready for anything. Be prepared, that's the ticket."

"Ah... thank you," he says slowly, closing the box. _But I don't want a Jeep. I want a bike._

"My gift is a little different," admits Malcolm, handing over a card. "I spoke with the bank, and removed the restrictions on your trust fund. I advise against spending the principle, but it's yours to do with as you like now. I was going to wait until graduation but given the circumstances.... if you need it, you have funds of your own."

Garrett turns to his father, mouth opening slightly in surprise. "I— thank you," he says, after a moment. _Just like that? Suddenly I'm trustworthy?_

"Oh, there'll be no need for him touch the principal," the Major says, looking very pleased. "Bethann and I each got you something from each of us, but this is from your grandparents together." With a flourish, he waves a servant to step forward with a folder. "Go ahead lad, take a peek."

Inside is a rather text-heavy stack of papers, the bottom one being different from the others. Skipping to that one reveals a cardstock sheet, heavily embossed, that declares Garrett Hawke Amell as being holder of seven percent of the Amell Corporation stock. He and Marian already had three percent each, gained when they turned eighteen. Leandra and Gamlen each have ten percent, so this is making him... on par with them? "Quarterly dividends are very generous indeed, more than enough for a young man such as yourself to live on without touching your trust fund. Plus the mutual fund, that's a few pages up; just three million principal, but the both should be more than enough ready cash for you."

"I... ten percent?" he asks, stunned. "Seriously? That's— wow. Thank you."

"See that you deserve it," Aristide says firmly. "Lot of trust in your hands, not all of it earned. Still, you're blood family and that means something. Straighten up a bit and... well."

"I— I understand. Thank you. I will strive to do you proud." He smiles at his grandfather, then, and Malcolm turns slightly away, hiding his expression until he can get it under control.

"Then I suppose I am the last," Winston says, his voice even and almost rhythmic— after so many decades preaching the Chant, his voice takes on the patterns of song and verse even in speech. Rising to his feet, he offers Garrett an unwrapped book. The cover is simple and unadorned, carrying only an imprint of the Chantry's sunburst symbol. The spine offers more of a hint: The Book of Morning Song: A Devotional. 

"It's a custom edition of course." Leandra gasps softly as she spots it and the priest nods. "Yes, a bit early perhaps— it is customary for an Amell to receive his or her book on their twenty-fifth birthday but it seemed... best to give you the guidance that can be found within now."

Garrett runs his fingers over the sunburst, shuddering. He closes his eyes, hoping that he seems reverential, as he tries his damnedest to ward off the flashback he knows _(sunburst cloak, four inches from his face, he could touch it if he could move)_ is coming _(smell of burning flesh, distant sounds of screaming)._

Malcolm gently puts a hand on Garrett's knee, squeezing just a touch. _Hang in there, son. It's alright. You're safe. I'm here._

Biting her lip, Leandra rises to her feet. "Garrett, would you be a dear and escort me for a little walk in the gardens? Consider it a mother's indulgence, to walk with her darling boy in the dusk of his birthday."

"Of course," he says, jumping to his feet quickly — too quickly, as his knees protest. _Can't go far. Should have brought the chair. (a cudgel slamming into the side of my bad leg) Stupid of me._

"You coddle the boy," the major says, tutting softly. Despite his words, he doesn't sound like he disapproves exactly. "Makes him soft."

"Coddle? Not at all father. I'm sure he'd much prefer to sit and chat but he's always been a dutiful son, willing to humor his mother," Leandra says, patting Garrett's hand as she tucks her arm under his. "Now. Are you familiar with the plot of Les Mis?" she asks conversationally, already steering him out of the room, intending to find a bench out of sight of the house for them to sit.

Garrett hangs on his mother's arm, limping slightly as they exit the room. "Somewhat," he manages, his voice a bit strained.

Once there, however, the bodyguard approaches him — a horrible faux pas. He clears his throat, saying in a stern voice, "Shall I fetch the chair, sir? Mr Thedas was very clear you were to use it if you began to limp."

"No, no, I'll just — can we sit for a moment, I only need—"

"Garrett, use the chair," Leandra cuts in.

"I'm fine, I just need—" He sinks into an outdoor sofa, cradling his head in his hands, shuddering as he tries to take a deep breath. Without another word, the bodyguard heads toward the front drive, where the vehicle and driver are parked, Garrett's wheelchair in the trunk.

Leandra sits next to her son, wrapping an arm around him. "Shhh, shhh," she croons, rocking a little. "Momma has you, my darling boy. Shhh."

"Please," he whimpers, pressing his face against his mother's shoulder. "Please, don't let them take me again. Don't let them send me to the Circle. I'll be good, I'll do whatever you want, just don't let them send me away."

"Oh no, Garrett, never. You're my boy, I'd never let them send you to the Circle. And they know that," Leandra says as she rubs his back, voice steady and comforting despite the tears in her eyes. "Not my boy, my darling son."

He nods, taking another deep breath, and slowly, in his mother's arms, the nightmares fade away. There's sunlight, and hugs, and his mother. The nightmares can't be more real than that.

* * *

He's not quite back on solid ground, and his guard not quite back with the chair, when his phone rings. He winces, pulling back and fumbling for it in his pocket. "Sorry," he says, about to silence it when he catches sight of the contact. "....it's Marian. I should take that."

Leandra's lips purse, but she doesn't protest. Or let go. Or give him some privacy.

Wincing a little, Garrett flips on both the speaker and the camera, so Marian can see them both. "Hey, what's up?"

"Happy birthday, dumbass." Marian's sharp voice is tense, anxious. "What the hell happened to you?"

"What do you mean what happened?"

"I _mean_ I finally got reliable internet service and my inbox is full of crap saying you died or got turned Tranquil or pissed off the whole Chantry and started an anti-mage crusade. What the hell? Can't I leave you alone for like one minute?"

"Marian Bellflower Amell!" Leandra snaps. "You will moderate your tone this instant! Your brother has been through enough without you berating him over things you don't know a thing about."

That shuts her up; there's an awkward pause for a moment before she says, colder, "Hello, Mother."

Garrett takes a deep breath, shoving away his own anger. "Look, what happened is... complicated. I'm glad you called. I'm safe, I'm not Tranquil, everything's fine. Alright?"

"Why didn't you come home for your birthday?" Leandra demands, still rubbing Garrett's back.

"Because we're deep in the middle of packing for this expedition. And if your antics ruined this for me, Garrett, I won't forgive you," she adds. "This is my big chance to make a name for myself."

"Got it," sighs Garrett, exhaustion seeping out of his bones and into his tone of voice. "I ruin everything, check."

"Marian..." Leandra says, feeling uncomfortable and guilty. A second latter, she covers it all with anger. "Marian! Your brother was kidnapped and tortured, almost Tranquiled— and all you care about is your _career_?" she demands.

"There's no need for hysterics, he just said he's fine— why do you think I'm calling?" she snaps in response. "Look, if there's anything I can do, just let me know, but I'm halfway across the world right now, I can't exactly save your ass from Templar."

"He's not— Marian, I think you need to talk to your father before you speak with either of us again. You're woefully unaware of what's transpired and your input is neither helpful nor wanted right now."

"Mom, enough," says Garrett, quietly. "It's fine. I'm glad she called."

There's another awkward pause as Marian tries to digest Garrett's tone. Finally, in a gentler tone herself, she says, "You're really okay, bro? Beth gave me a recap about how much the tabloids exaggerated but..."

"Yeah," he says, still sounding exhausted. "I'm fine, Mar. Have fun on your trip."

"It's not a vacation," she grumbles. "I'm going to be working my ass off, you know."

"So what else is new?" he jokes back.

Leandra takes a slow breath, reining herself in. _I couldn't help save you either. But I can protect you now, from anyone._ Staying silent, she listens to her two eldest talk awkwardly to each other and tries to figure out what she's doing. _How do I help you son? What's the right thing?_

* * *

Garrett left the house in his father's Bently driven by his father's driver, but he returns in an unfamiliar Jeep driven by Fen. He stays in the passenger seat until Fen gets his chair, letting the elf help him into it and wheel him into the house. When he reaches Varric, seated in the living room with his laptop, he hoists himself onto the couch and lays his head in the dwarf's lap, shivering a little.

"I'm not okay," he whispers, closing his eyes.

_I knew I should have— damn it. Regret later, Garrett now (always)_. "That's fine," Varric whispers, stroking the back of his head. "It's fine to be not okay. You're safe here, safe with— with us. Fall apart if you need to, we'll keep watch." Tapping the house system, he sends to Fenris, [the fuck happened over there?]

[A disaster,] the elf sends back, as he heads off to find Barkspawn. [They threatened to send him to the Circle, and made a big deal out of his praying and being part of the Church.]

Garrett shudders, letting Varric's touch sooth him. "Thinking bad thoughts again," he mumbles.

"Can't stop thoughts. But you can identify them. Realize they're bad thoughts and put them to the side as best you can. You stayed with Fenris. You sought me out. You did good, shagua," Varric murmurs. [Grab some blankets, warmth might help too.]

"What's the point?" whispers Garrett. "They'll take you away from me. I'd rather be—" He cuts off, not quite wanting to give voice to the imp whispering in his head.

"No they won't. They can try but they won't succeed," Varric says firmly. "We'll stop them. Failing that, we'll get you back. I promise."

He shivers again, letting Varric pet him in silence for a moment. "Sorry," he whispers. "Just... they want me to marry and take over my dad's job and become an Amell, a real Amell, as soon as possible."

"So what?" Varric asks softly. "They need what only you can give them. You can set the terms."

"They'll send me to the Circle if I don't."

"They'll _try_. And even then, that's a loss for them. They _might_ be able to still get an heir out that outcome, but the shame and bad PR..."

"I just, I just keep thinking I should give up, I'll never be— I'll never be allowed to just be with you and Fen and live my life." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I hate birthdays."

"...we'll figure it out," Varric promises. "Titans shudder and Maker rage, we'll figure it out."

"Okay," he whispers, bringing his hand up to rest on Varric's leg beside his head. "Can I— Can I just rest here? For a little while?"

"Take all the while you need, shagua," Varric says softly, nodding at Barkspawn as the mabari squeezes his furry bulk onto the sofa at Garrett's feet. "And say the word and we'll head to bed, alright?"

He sighs, then, giving a sleepy little nod as Fenris drapes a warm blanket over him. He doesn't speak up, but before too long, he is asleep: a sweet, gentle sleep, without nightmares.

* * *

Garrett stays on medical leave for another week and a half, making it nearly a month since he'd been at work by the time he enters the building again. Given that he has a keycard for the executive elevator, he doesn't get much notice on his way in despite him having to use a cane to support some of his weight if he has to stand for more than a few minutes. By the first hour, however, his activity is noted by others and he starts getting little probes. First a trickle, then a steady stream: oh-so very casual private messages, emails about problems or subjects he'd never normally be bothered about, meeting invites to projects he's never so much as touched...

He's spared drop-ins at least, given that Varric's office is restricted and monitored— though why people assume his communications aren't also logged is beyond him. A few of the higher ups come by, mostly for scheduled meetings with Varric, but some are clearly taking advantage of their greater access to try and get some gossip or at least a peek. Each and everyone of them takes careful note of 'R. Fenswalker' standing in the corner, suit crisp and expression forbidding any attempts at talking to him directly. Well, by most people anyway.

"Oh my Gary, you've been holding back on me," Dale says the moment he walks out of the elevator. "But you can make it up to me by talking me up a bit when you introduce me to talk, dark and smoldering over there," he adds in a faux-whisper.

"He's taken," says Garrett, in a low tone. "His boyfriend's real possessive. I can't even get to him. And I've tried." Still, he cracks a smile. "Hi Dale."

"I'm amendable to threesomes," Dale says with utter sincerity. Then snickers, unable to maintain the facade. "It's good to see you again, my friend. If it were not for Neets assuring me you were well..." He spreads his hands wide.

"You know me, Dale, always hurting myself in weird ways."

"Credit where credit is due, Gary— you had very little to do with your most recent injuries," Dale says firmly. The elf wags a finger at him reprovingly. "Please do recall that." He glances at Fenris, then frowns thoughtfully. Stepping forward, he murmurs, "how much does..?" while flicking his eyes towards the bodyguard.

"He's been briefed," he says quickly.

Dale smiles broadly. "Splendid then. Neets and I were hoping you'd be up for lunch together?"

He smiles. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Need a hand up or are your legs healed up?" _You looked real rough back when the guard brought you out..._

"I'm mostly healed. There was some magical healing involved." So saying, he pulls his cane out from under the desk, leaning on it as he gets to his feet — mostly now he needs it if he has to stand too long, or when getting up.

"Not surprised, given... The extent of what those animals did to you," Dale says darkly. He glances at mage carefully. "When you say he's cleared to know, do you mean... Say..." He hesitates a second. "Who Leliana is?" he whispers.

"I... Suspect he knows. But I haven't asked." He shakes his head a little. "Listen, Dale, a lot of what the papers reported is— wait. I wasn't aware _you_ had met anyone by that name."

Dale gives him an amused look, delighted as always at the absurdities his side profession creates.

"You... Know more than you let on about..." Garrett begins slowly.

"Fuck's sake," mutters Fen, just behind them. "I was called Frank that night."

Dale blinks, giving the other elf a second look, one with far less leer to it. "Huh. My compliments to your stylist. So yes, I am aware of many things. In this case, the last secret to be revealed to me is you." He pauses. "Do, ah, do you still wish to be called Gary or something else?"

"Please," he says. "I.. don't suppose there's anyone who hasn't heard but just in case."

Dale reaches over to pat his hand. "That's adorable. But no, your name is being whispered from boardroom to subbasement."

He winces. "Might start eating in the office," he mumbles. "I don't... Do well with fame. Or infamy."

Dale pauses. "I could message Neets to come up instead," he begins slowly. "But it might be well done to be seen, to let the worst blow out now."

_Lovely._ "I'll cope," he begins, and Fen scowls.

"We will select a corner table and shield you from view."

"A wise plan," Dale agrees. "And Neets' presence will block the worst," he adds with a grin.

Garrett grins. "Well, then, maybe it won't be so bad after all."

"I said nothing but take a glance at her left hand," Dale remarks as they all file into the elevator. "Stew, tacos or shrimp pasta? I'll text ahead.*

"Tacos."

"And for the tall, dark, drink of water in the corner?"

Fen seems startled to be asked, but says only, "pasta."

_Strong and silent type, eh? I can work with that._ "Texting now. Ah She has a spot on the right, that wobbly table no-one likes by itself near the service entrance," he says cheerfully. After finishing that, he settles into gossip sharing mode. Though in this case, it's far less about just jawing and more about giving Gary (and his watchdog) the lay of the land. When they arrive at the cafeteria, the room goes half quiet for a few seconds. Then whispering spikes even as other spots go silent as they notice late. Dale, bless his heart, tosses a wink back of his shoulder, then steps forward.

"Ah, my esteemed colleagues, peers and people I don't know or care about! How it warms my heart and livens my soul to know that you all spend your days waiting with bated breath for my arrival!" He starts bowing floridly, blowing kisses and winking at anyone that makes eye contact too long. "Please, do not despair, for though I cannot fill all your hearts, if you line up neatly, I will certainly do my best to thank each and everyone of you for your refreshingly direct interest in my personage!"

Garrett grins, silently thanking Dale as he flees toward his table. He slides in with his back to the wall, Fenris sitting beside him to block him in on one side, Nita already on the other side. "Hey Neets," he says, glancing at her hand as he was instructed.

Nita, having started to half rise as he gets close, starts to smile. Then scowls as she notices him glancing at her hand— and at the splint on her thumb. She quickly starts to hide it beneath the table, but stops as she realizes it's pointless. "Stupid elfy elf," she mutters. "Gary... it is good to see you in person. Texts," sexts, "and email are just not the same. You are... becoming well?"

"I'm fine. Never better," he jokes. "Glad to be back at work. What'dya do?"

Her cheeks redden. "...nothing?" she tries weakly.

"Huh. You should get that looked at. Spontaneous broken bones is a bad sign."

She scowls, though she can't entirely cover up her smile at his joke. Bumping him with her shoulder, she studies him. "Jerk. It's not broken, just dislocated."

"Hopefully not my fault," he says, sobering a touch, though he does keep smiling. "I get that not everyone can text as fast as I can, you don't have to try to keep up."

"No, it's not..." Nita sighs a little. "I may have, umm, well, I many have, that is— I punchedDinnaandbrokethreeteethandherjaw." She coughs. "So how was your weekend?" _That will not work. But I must try._

He whistles. "Wow. Congratulations. That's the sexiest thing I've heard all week."

Nita blushes even harder. "Gary," she hisses, looking rather pleased despite herself. "She deserved worse but..." She scowls then. "I know better than to hit with a fist but Nita should not. Totally worth it though."

"I'll bet," he agrees.

Nita glances at him sidelong. "No questions? Just... that?"

He shrugs. "I'm sure she had it coming, and I'm _not_ sure I should know what started it," he jokes. "But if you want to tell me the juicy dirt, I'm all ears."

_Dammit Gary, that's not helping with—_ "That is... a regrettably good and wise approach," she says with a sigh, though she smiles honestly at him. "She— you are right, details are not... fit to dwell on. Suffice to say, she spoke of things she ought not have to people of even worse character than she. When she bragged about her actions later, I... overheard. And acted." _I should have probably been fired, just out of fairness, but I managed to keep my temper just enough to goad her into giving me an excuse. Grabbing my arm does not warrant getting flattened, but it was enough._

"Spoke of — she broke confidentiality?" he asks, leaning forward a bit.

Leliana hesites, eyes shadowed. "She passed rumors to..." Moving slowly, she takes his hand in her own, rubbing it with her good thumb. "Rumors about you. About your social life."

His gaze shutters, and he tenses, taking a moment to take a deep, calming breath. "Ah."

"I am sorry," Leliana says softly. "I was the one that brought you to her attention."

"No, no. Whatever she may have said, it isn't what caused— that. That's my fault alone."

"No it was _not_ ," Leliana growls. "It was that stupid little blonde bitch as the spark but it was the T— assholes in plate and silk that did this. Them and their blasphemy."

He raises an eyebrow. "Blasphemy, huh?"

"What they did to you— what they wanted to do— that was _not_ the will of the Maker," she says stoutly.

Garrett rubs at his temple, exhausted. "Wasn't it? Mages are dangerous. I've been called wild, uncontrollable, before. If they had been right, if I had been involved with blood magic.."

"I've killed people. Quite a few of them," Leliana murmurs, lips barely moving. "Should I be tortured and broken then?"

"Only if you're out of control. If you can't stop yourself. If your judgement is gone," he says quietly. "The same way we treat anyone who transgresses."

"It would be more merciful to simply send such a person on to the Maker. If it were not for the T— broken's ability to create enchantments, if it were not _profitable_ for the Chantry..." She shakes her head in disgust. "But you are not out of control. Less, perhaps, than you were before they hurt you. But that is not your sin, it is theirs."

"Perhaps," he says quietly. "But you don't know me very well."

"Better by far than they do." She bites her lip, then shifts a little closer so that their legs touch. "And I would like to know you better. The... complications of your identity and current entanglements are a challenge, but ones I am willing to face."

He gives a small, lopsided smile, then. "I can't say as I don't feel the same," he teases. "You're quite the intriguing woman, Juanita."

"I knew it," Dale says, taking a seat across from them without warning. "Neets evaded very adroitly but I just knew it." Leaning in, he gives a playful leer. "How was it?" he singsongs.

"Well! A lady never kisses and tells," says Garrett, putting on his best impression of his mother's offended tone as he presses a hand to his chest.

"Then be a slut and dish," Dale replies promptly. "More fun than being a lady anyway."

"Why am I friends with you again?" wonders Juanita.

"Because he's cute," says Garrett promptly.

"Divine providence probably." A beat. "Also that."

"Speaking of providence, how's the latest fling?" asks Garrett, tilting his head a bit. "You were... I want to say, you were flirting with an elf last I heard?"

"New guy is my new favorite," Nita declares, glancing past Garrett to Fenris. "He's not been mean to me."

"Elf?" Dale asks, baffled. "Oh, that was weeks ago honey. I'm on a pretty solid mandarin diet of late. Found a new club and let's just say they don't get nearly enough fine elf booty up in there so..."

Fenris shoots Nita a glare fierce enough to curdle milk, but says nothing.

"Ooh, I could go for mandarin," says Garrett approvingly. "Anything tasty?"

"Twins," Dale says with a blissful expression. "Identical twins with little in the way of incest taboo."

Garrett makes a face. "I've never managed to score twins. And I've zero interest in sharing someone with my own twin."

Dale considers that for a moment. "I would perhaps feel saddened by that were she not, well, female," he decides. "You are already almost too pretty to really interest me, saved by your powerful build and rakish demeanor."

"So about that topic that's regarding anything at all except our sex lives?" Nita says brightly.

"Anyone follow e-sports? There's this one furry, SonicFox, who's a real up and comer in the fighting game circuit..."

They chat idly for the remainder of lunch, eating and enjoying each others company; with Fenris to glare at anyone who gets too close, nobody bothers them at their table. As he heads back toward the lift, smiling to himself, Garrett is tugged back a few paces to speak with said bodyguard, who murmurs in his ear: "Sexiest thing you've heard all week?"

Garrett rolls his eyes. "You know I didn't mean—"

"Maybe I need to try harder."

Fen tugs him toward the men's room, just a step or two, his smirk enticing. Garrett hesitates, glancing at Nita and Dale, then shakes his head, moving toward the lift. _No. I don't have permission, and it's too risky_. "hey, wait up for the cripple," he jokes, leaning on his cane for emphasis.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett's getting his equilibrium back now that he's several weeks out from his kidnap and unlawful torture. When he gets a text from an old friend, however, things may change between him and Varric...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: PTSD flashback, anti-mage bigotry, sex
> 
> Uploaded early this week. Merry Christmas, I got you Isabela

**Captain_Beladonna** : Back in town tomorrow night. The usual? Starlight Bar, 8pm?

Messages sent to Garrett's account still go through Varric's filter first, particularly ones from a sender his software hasn't seen before. The message hits his trap, holding for him to manually release before it can reach Garrett's phone, mid-afternoon some weeks after Garrett's birthday. The boy's been doing better and better; he's stopped using the lyrice collar except to sleep, and he's been doing his community service hours at the local hospital doing yardwork without complaint, avoiding drinking and drugs as part of his probation. Maybe it's time for him to have a treat.

_Hmmm. Beladonna..._ Varric gives himself a few hours to think about it, worry over it and plan (though really, he's just conjuring up scenarios). On the way home that night— because why drive two cars, now that people know they know each other?— Varric glances over at Garrett. "Got a probable valid new sender in your email this afternoon. Captain Beladonna? That Isabela?"

He sits up a bit, surprised. "Yeah, that's her. She back in town?"

"Yeah— I freed the message, it should be hitting your phone any second," he adds. "Think she'd be fine with you bringing a plus one? I was serious when I said I'd like to see her again. Curious about what she's been up to since Kuwait."

Garrett pulls out his phone, checks his messages. "It's, uh. What she's inviting me to isn't your scene, exactly. Maybe I counter with lunch?"

_Not my scene?_ Curious, Varric doesn't reply for a moment, instead doing a quick search for the place in question.

It's a bar, one known for having servers with low-cut tops and the occasional burlesque performance, but it's not a strip club normally. However, there's a line or two on the website: inquire about private parties in the back room. He finds references to the back room parties here and there, always circumspect about what exactly happens, but always glowing references.

"Ah," Varric says delicately. "Maybe dinner at six and..." Varric hesitates, then shrugs. "We can discuss afters, well, after." _Not sure if I'd be willing to do a scene with little Bela but... it has been nearly a decade (stone, I was nearly younger than Garrett, wasn't I?) so it's not like she'll still be (younger than Garrett is now) so damn young._

"Got it." His thumbs fly across the keyboard, and within minutes, a counter-offer is sent out: dinner at Le Petit Chat, Garrett's treat, six pm.

The response is rapid:

**Captain_Beladonna** : Took you long enough. Was beginning to think you were tired of me ;) Sure, dinner on you sounds great.

"I'll pick out what you'll wear," Varric says abruptly a few minutes later. "And what you won't."

Garrett smirks, but says only, "Yes, sir. As you like."

* * *

As he walks into _Le Petit Chat_ , Garrett is looking pretty sharp: a new burgundy button-down over black slacks, each sleeve embroidered with gold lettering in Mandarin worked into an elegant design at the cuffs. He's paired it with brown loafers, and his hair — longer than he's ever let it get before — is slicked back and tied at the nape of his neck with a burgundy ribbon. But that's not what keeps his attention the most.

No, that's what he's wearing under his slacks. He's keenly aware of the leather as he walks, some part of his mind keeping close attention to the key in Varric's pocket, his proximity to it. Just in case.

They tell the waiter they're meeting someone, and they're taken to a table in the main bar area. There's a greatcoat on the back of one of the chairs, but no woman; it doesn't take long for Garrett to find her and point her out. "That's her, at the bar," he says, indicating the young dark-skinned woman leaning forward onto the bar top, displaying her best asset for them clearly.

The woman turns back toward the table, tilting her kerchief-laden head, grinning broadly as she spots them. She holds up the bottle of wine she'd won from the bartender as if in explanation, then makes her way toward the table, hips swaying with every step her knee-high boots take.

Varric blinks a few times, then shakes his head. "Little Bela grew up," he mutters with bemusement. _And in, as the phrase goes, all the right places_. "Don't introduce us just yet, I want to see if she recognizes me," he adds, feeling a bit playful as he toys with the little bit of metal in his pocket.

Isabela slides into her seat, placing her trophy on the table as she smirks. "Hawke. You look well. New friend?" she asks, indicating Varric with a tilt of her head.

"Something like that," says Garrett, leaning forward onto his hand. "You look divine, as always."

Isabela licks her lips faintly, then finally turns her attention properly to Varric. She holds out a hand to shake, beginning to say, "Captain Isabela, at your— Varric?"

"Captain huh? Gave yourself a bit of a promotion, not-so-little Bela?" Varric replies with a grin, taking her hand anyway.

"I own a boat, that makes me the Captain," she laughs, shaking his hand. "Well met. I have to admit I never thought I'd see you again, but I should have known. Anyone mysteriously escapes from all-powerful forces, you're probably behind it."

"Or Garrett," Varric mutters with a sidelong look. _Or Mal, I suppose_. "Have to say, I wasn't really expecting to run into you again either, especially this way."

"That's Isabela, full of surprises. You coming out with us tonight?" she asks, reaching for the bottle to open it.

"It's an option on the table," Varric says slowly, thoughtfully, wishing he had, in all his planning and thinking, remembered to ask Garrett if he had any ideas on Isabela's opinions on BDSM. "Figured we'd start with dinner and catching up and see where things go from there."

"You should come, it'll be a blast. I got that girl Garrett liked again, what was her name— Candi or Bambi or whatever?"

Isabela turns to Garrett, as if to ask him to supply the name, and she moves to pour him some wine. Garrett places his hand over his glass, adding, "Starlight, I think it was."

"No, it was something ending in an i. Not the blonde, the redhead."

"Oh, you mean Trixi!"

"That's the one." Isabela glances at Garrett quizzically, but when he doesn't move his hand, she shrugs and pours herself a glass instead.

"One glass tonight," Varric says softly. "Or one cocktail, your choice." He pauses. "Dance or... more?"

"Trixi's a stripper, I got a lapdance last time. If we're going out, I'll save it for tonight."

Isabela raises an eyebrow, glancing back to Varric. "He's the boss, huh? Not something I thought you'd be into."

Varric raises an eyebrow. "Familiar with that sort of thing?" he asks carefully.

"Sure," she says casually. "I'm a switch myself."

"Interesting information," Varric comments lightly. "So, how did you met Garrett?"

"Oh, who _doesn't_ know Mr Party Boy over here?" she purrs. "He's the life of the party."

"Not.. so much, anymore," says Garrett weakly.

"Things have been busy in the last..." Varric pauses. "Four, five months." _Stone cracks, has it not even been half a year?_

"So I hear," she says, and her voice drops to a low purr. "I saw the news and I thought, _that_ guy needs a night off."

"Maybe," Varric says noncommittally. "Garrett mentioned you before, as one of his three... repeats, I suppose. Couldn't believe the odds of you being, well, you. So when you texted," he trails off with a shrug.

"You decided to get a taste of what everyone's talking about," she teases. "I dig."

"It's not like that," says Garrett quickly.

"I wanted to catch up with you," Varric corrects her, patting Garrett's arm comfortingly. "Information before business before pleasure."

"I'm not sure where to begin," she laughs. "I've just got back from spending a long weekend backpacking in Taiwan, that was neat. Last week I ended up spending the night in Tokyo, an overnight in Madrid... I managed to get myself a day off in Kyoto to see the trees last month, that was really something special."

"Really? That's impressive, it's hard to get a tourist visa into the Nippon province. Makes sense, I suppose, given that the Clans use the old palace there for their annual conclave. Never been myself," _and I have no interest in going there, or anywhere (where Clan Tethras rules) under the Chinese banner_. "So you're more a professional traveler than anything else?" There's no scorn or dismissiveness in the question, just curiosity and interest. While it's far too whimsical and chaotic a lifestyle for him, he can see the appeal.

"At heart," she laughs. "They pay me to be a flight attendant, though. I take a few months sabbatical every other year, save up my vacation time and backpack through a region. See the world."

Varric hums softly, eyeing her speculatively. _I wonder... if this goes well, if she's solid, someone with her background and history would make a very nice courier..._ "Dangerous hobby, traveling alone," he probes knowingly.

"Maybe for some. I'm good at it by now."

"Not a mage, no earth sense to you so..." He studies her for a moment, eyes lingering on her arms and hands. "Knife?"

"Knives, plural." She grins. "I'm wearing four right now. Bet you can't guess where."

"One in each boot," he says instantly, those being the easy two. "Belt knife and... one stashed somewhere more suitable for Garrett to find I suspect," he finishes, not having a clue on the last.

"Back sheath," Garrett offers, running his finger around the rim of his empty glass. "Small of her back, a little one. And one on her inner thigh."

"Cheater," she laughs.

"I seem to recall you being _very_ eager to show me that one last time," he says with a smirk.

"Always fun to show off your new toys," Varric says blandly, slanting a smirk towards Garrett.

"Speaking of toys, you'll never guess what I'm driving now, Bela."

"Let me guess, a new Yamaha? A Suzuki? A Harley?"

"A Jeep, actually."

Isabela raises an eyebrow. "I had no idea Jeep made motorcycles."

Varric makes a face. "Soon as your probation is over, we're getting you a new bike," Varric mutters. _Damn Jeep fits you as well as a military uniform would._

Garrett laughs. "I'll hold you to that. No, the Jeep was a gift — my birthday just passed, and the grandparents were feeling generous."

"How generous?" purrs Isabela

"A fund worth three mil, plus some stock in Amell Corp. You know, the usual grandparent stuff."

Isabela leans forward, trailing a finger up and down Garrett's arm. "Have I ever told you how handsome your eyes are?"

Varric stiffens, the hand on Garrett's arm tightening. "Hey," he says, eyes narrows, tone protective. _Dammit Garrett, why do you have such terr— she's teasing. Shite._

Isabela throws her head back into a peal of laughter, seeing both men's discomfort. She removes her hand, picking up her wineglass instead. "You got it bad," she teases. "So are you officially out of the closet or what?"

"No," he says, teeth grit together.

"Shame, that. Nobody should have to hide who they are or who they fuck." She shakes her head, sipping her wine. "Well, I wish you both the best of luck. Couldn't have happened to a nicer pair of lads."

"Sorry, I just— Garrett's got a big heart, big enough that it's blinded him to a lot of flaws," Varric says gruffly. "I can get... protective."

"Good," says Isabela, nodding. "Oh, speaking of flaws, I ran into that mage you were with, Anderfells or whatnot."

Garrett tenses. "Anders? You saw Anders?"

"Really?" Varric asks softly. Not a good kind of soft either. "Please, do tell."

"Not much to tell, really. Took the same puddle-jumper from Haiti." She shrugs, sipping her wine again.

"Anders is here. In Kirkwall. Now." Garrett's tone is disbelieving, energetic.

"Garrett." The name is both warning and command. "Did he see you? Did you speak?"

"Yeah, of course. What's this about?" Isabela replies.

Varric studies her a moment, then glances at Garrett with a raised eyebrow. _You trust her with this sort of thing? She closer to him or you?_

Garrett hesitates, then shakes his head, one short jerk. Then he says, "There's a... we're not together anymore. He owes me, bigtime. So maybe don't tell him you talked to me until I get a chance at him myself, yeah?"

"Like that, is it? Yeah, no sweat," she says, quickly. "I'm glad you got rid of the asshole."

Varric snorts, though he relaxes a bit at Garrett's quick but sincere wording. "Bit more than just than that— doubt you need the warning, but be careful around him," the dwarf says gruffly.

"I'm always careful. Trust no-one, that's my motto," she teases.

"I thought it was, fuck everyone?" asks Garrett

"Same thing," she laughs.

"Not... really at all?" wonders Varric.

"The way she lives, it is," Garrett chuckles. "I'm glad you're back in town," he adds.

"His... lifestyle has undergone a few revamps but it'd be nice if he could reconnect with at least a few elements of his past," Varric allows.

"How different are we talking? You still party, right?"

"Not unless Sir says I can," he jokes.

"Parties can be fine. No drugs, light drinking. He can flirt and whatnot but no sex without permission," Varric rattles off.

"So, what, like a bridge party?" she jokes.

"Isabela's parties are.... wild," Garrett says, with a bit of a wince. "Dozens of people, strippers, drugs, drunken sex..."

Varric leans back, eyes considering. "Strippers are fine," he says after a moment. "Don't care if other people do drugs, provided it's not blue and they don't get out of hand enough you're in danger."

"You should both come," Isabela offers. "Keep an eye on him, make sure he's following the rules."

Again, Varric glances at Garrett, giving the younger man a chance to give his opinion— for good or ill.

Garrett hesitates a moment. _No drinking, no E, but there's still strippers, and... well... it's something to do with Varric. Something fun. Maker knows I need an outlet._ "You know what, let's do it. We'll go."

"Sweet," says Isabela with a smirk. "I can't wait. This is going to be a blast."

* * *

The party is certainly _something_ , that's for sure. A few short hours later, Varric and Garrett find themselves packed into the back room with over two dozen strangers plus Isabela. The room is dark, blue and purple lights alternately flooding the room in complex patterns that do little to illuminate and much to distract; the music is loud, something with a thumping bass and muted vocals, meant to put one off-balance and off guard. Alcohol flows like water in a flash flood, and everywhere they look people are popping pills or dissolving squares, eager to lose themselves in a dissociative fugue of pleasure and sex.

The girls in their tight, low-cut tops keep circulating drinks, sometimes sitting with partygoers for a time in exchange for tips. The strippers have been brought in from an outside company: four of them, a themed set, three female and one male. Garrett can't decide which he prefers, the male firefighter or the female nurse; both are friendly, outgoing, and well endowed where it matters.

Still, as he nurses his first drink, something seems... lacking. The music is offputting. The crowd is too loud. The strippers seem fake, disingenuous, garish. He'd rather be home in Varric's basement than here, he realizes, but he doesn't want to let on, so he keeps smiling, keeps sipping his drink, avoids taking Varric's hand.

His heart pounds in his chest like the bass pounds in the music, and he wishes he could see a bit better. He tugs at his silk necktie, which feels oddly tight for some reason— did he tie the knot too tight? Maybe he should loosen it a bit more.

Varric is quiet. Watchful. He's nursing the same drink he started with, a sealed bottle of hard cider, and just observing. Everyone.Truth be told, he's at least somewhat enjoying himself. Not so much because of the (so-called) music or the (adequate) strippers, but the people. Varric likes to understand things. He likes to know things. This being a kind of party he's never actually been to, he's enjoying the chance to observe people in a new situation, one that brings out behaviors the are normally kept locked tightly away from witnesses. Having noticed Garrett's careful distance, he tries not to crowd the mage, but he takes equal care to brush against him periodically. Unfortunately, his distraction and deliberate disregard means he doesn't notice Garrett's unease for far longer than normal.

When he does notice, he steps a little closer. "You alright? Need some air?"

"I'm fine," Garrett says, his voice tight. He scans the crowd, tense, watchful, as if looking for trouble, as if—

_The sunburst, the symbol of the Church and the Maker, brilliant and golden against crimson fabric_

he can't breathe. He can't think. All he can see is the sunburst, his vision narrowing until all else is blocked out. He tugs at his throat again, yanking the tie off, his skin cooling as his body reaches for that wellspring of energy inside him, reaches for the cold he knows can buy him precious minutes, seconds even, anything to last just a little longer, to have a little more chance of getting away—

Words bubble up in Garrett's awareness like they're moving through tar. Familiar words. Good words. Then warm lips press against his, something very jarringly different than what he experienced at the hands of the Templar. Strong, broad hands skim over his arms in a bare whisper of touch. "Shagua. My mustang. Safe with me. Come back to me," Varric murmurs against his lover's lips. "Safe with me. I have you."

Garrett takes a deep, ragged breath, forcing air against the knot in his chest. He shudders as he lets it out, awareness trickling back, his vision expanding a bit. _Varric's eyes. Varric's smile. Varric. I'm safe. We're together. I'm safe._

He takes another breath, and this one comes a little easier. "Sorry," he whispers, closing his eyes. "I'm okay."

"I know. It's fine. It's fine to not be okay, remember? I'm here for you." He gently kisses Garrett again, taking his time with it without deepening the kiss at all. "It's safe. Just a stripper in a slutty Sister outfit. No real Chantry here, alright?"

Garrett nods, a short, jerky nod, pulling back from Varric. "Okay," he whispers, taking another deep breath, feeling the chill condense into a single mote he sends scurrying down his arm, toward his fingers. "I— I'm alright," he adds again. "I just wasn't expecting..."

"Everything alright?" asks Isabela, coming up behind Varric with a bottle in her hand.

"...I think we might be leaving early," Varric says after a moment, still looking intently at Garrett's face. "Had a little bit of a flashback. The sunburst."

"Shit," she swears. "I didn't think, I just ordered the usual four-pack — I'm sorry. Let me help you get home. You took an Uber? Or did you drive?"

Garrett reaches up, gently running his fingers along Varric's hairline, curling around behind his ear. "Yeah. We're okay," he says softly.

Varric leans his head against the hand. "I drove us but..." He hesitates, hating giving up control of his vehicle. "You can drive, right?"

"I can," Isabela confirms. "Let's get you boys home."

* * *

As Isabela drives, Garrett rests his head in Varric's lap in the backseat, letting the older man soothe and comfort him. He draws small circles on the dwarf's knee as Varric runs his fingers through his hair, letting the tension flow out of his body as he internalizes the idea that he's safe, really safe.

"Thank you," Varric says softly. "I'm sure you rarely skip closing out your own parties."

"It's the least I could do. I should have thought about this ahead of time." Isabela hesitates, then adds, "if you'd rather I stick around, we could have a private afterparty. To make up for things."

"Garrett? You feel up for playing?" Varric asks gently. "You can say yes or no, both answers are fine. And if you say yes, you can safeword at anytime, alright?"

"Yes," he says quietly. "Please. I want to."

"Alright," Varric murmurs running a finger across Garrett's lips. Louder, he directs his next words to Isabela. "You said you're a switch, right? Interesting in some, what's it called, direction play? I'll supervise mostly, give orders and such and the two of you interact with each other?"

"That sounds perfect," she says, smiling at them in the rearview mirror. "Talk to me about your lists and safewords."

"Well, to start..." Varric begins, eyes half closing as he leans back and cuddles his lover.

Five minutes later, Varric instructs Isabela to wait a minute as he deactivates the security system. Then they spend another five minutes after getting out of the car reading her into the furry and four-legged security system. Eventually however, they get to the second level of the basement, where Varric has converted a storage room into a playroom.

"There's a shower stall and restroom in the back there if you want to clean up. Toys and costumes in the lockers near the door," Varric lists off as he heads for the somewhat out of place office chair in the corner. "I got some stuff in the theory that Garrett's... sort of girlfriend might visit that should fit you well enough if you're interested. Builds are close." Isabela doesn't know him well enough to realize his brisk, practical demeanor is covering for some nerves and awkwardness. But Garrett does. "When were you last tested? If you can't be sure, I have a small stash of condoms and Plan B, just in case."

"Regularly," she assures him as she heads for the restroom. "I'm clean, and I have an IUD. So unless we get a lot of magic involved, I'm set."

Garrett, meanwhile, is already heading for the toybox, already pulling out the thing he needs most: the lyrice collar, to prevent accidents. He brings it to Varric, knowing he can't fasten the thing properly around his own neck, and kneels, offering it to him with two hands.

"You sure?" Varric asks softly, hesitating. "You already had a flashback today..."

He nods, mutely. _I need it. I can't control myself at the best of times; I'm not going to be able to hold back if something happens during the scene._

"I will keep you safe," Varric promises in a whisper. "Keep your eyes open. Remember I'm here. You're safe. There's no lock, it can come off easily. Alright?" At his nod, Varric takes a slow breath, then slips the collar onto his lover. "Deep breath for me."

Garrett takes a deep breath, suppressing a shudder as the alien coldness seeps into his bones. Then he lets out a long, contented sigh, feeling his connection to the Fade dwindle, moving just out of reach. _Safe. Controlled. No accidents. Tamed._ He smiles, pressing a kiss to Varric's palm even as his gut churns, as lead weights settle into the pit of his stomach.

Varric gently strokes Garrett's hair, one of his favorite soothing gestures. "Feeling steadier?"

"Yes," he lies in a whisper. It's not entirely untrue. He feels more secure, more sure of himself and his control. But underneath, he can feel a yawning chasm, waiting to swallow him up if anything disrupts that fragile peace.

Isabela makes her way back, then, having changed only a little: she's stripped down to her bra on top, replaced her jeans with a black bellydance skirt full of little golden jingling coins. She walks barefoot, her hips swaying and announcing her presence. "Ready when you boys are," she says, smirking just a touch.

"Up," he orders Garrett firmly. "Strip to your underwear and take a seat." He gestures at the leather sofa across from him. "Bela, I assume you picked that skirt for a reason?"

Garrett nods, unbuttoning his shirt in silence as he moves to the sofa.

Isabela flashes Varric a winning smile. "Of course. Shall I dance for you?"

"For him," Varric says. "Garrett, hands on the armrests. No touching. Isabela, no hands and his boxers are to stay on and buttoned, but otherwise enjoy yourself with him."

"You got it, boss," she says, and with no more preamble than that, Isabela begins to dance. Her hips sway like a snake hypnotizing its prey, her wrists rolling at the ends of her arms, her busom shimmying as she moves closer to Garrett, then away. She picks up a scarf, using it to tease and tantalize, now slinging it behind her back as she bends away from him, now waving it before her face as she shimmies toward him. Garrett leans forward just a bit, eyes glazed with desire, but he keeps mostly still, hands on the armrests, eyes fixed on her body.

_She's... good. Very good,_ Varric notes. The dwarf has spent so long denying himself even the idea of sex that it's hard sometimes for him to do so even now. He'd still been young when he was sold to Revelations— like most dwarves, his sex drive had only just started awakening when he was fourteen, a few scant months before the possibility of even dating, much less sex, was taken from him for years. Afterwards, he'd been too messed up, mentally, emotionally, physically, to allow himself to consider it. He'd tried, eventually, wanting to find a way to have that part of himself back by exploring the kink scene but... it just hadn't clicked. 'Empty' he'd called it to Garrett, and empty it was. His body had gotten some form of pleasure from the actions but it had been as filling as cotton candy.

It wasn't until Garrett that he had stumbled on the solution, the explanation. He needs to care. _She's beautiful, passionate and graceful... but it's that long-ago smile that makes it appealing. That stunned relief that someone was willing to help, that solemn promise that she would remember my help. The connection of the past_. He fights back a laugh, not wanting to ruin the mood for the other two. _You are far too contemplative for someone watching your lover get a lapdance from a gorgeous woman, ya daft fool._

Finally, Isabela straddles Garrett, her hips resting lightly on his caged erection. She slings the scarf around behind him, pulling him a little closer to her as she rides him, her body rolling in waves that travel from her head down to her pelvis. Garrett groans, eyes drifting shut; Isabela lifts the scarf again, taking his wrists and wrapping the scarf around them to lightly bind them together above his head.

Garrett goes still. Suddenly, utterly still.

Focusing back on the scene, Varric sees Isabela winding the scarf around Garrett's wrists and starts to smile. _Good call, but I guess it's not a shock she'd know he likes that sort of— fuck. Fuck!_

"Bela," he begins too late.

That's all he gets out before Bela is thrown to the ground, too stunned to scream before the wind is knocked out of her. Garrett is on top of her before she can react, his fist slamming into her face, his knee pressed into her solar plexus to prevent her catching her breath, getting up.

"Lyrium," Varric shouts, bolting from his seat. Garrett's safeword is not exactly the best thing to shout maybe but it's the first thing that comes to mind. "Garrett, no! Lyrium! Stand-down!" he adds just as he grabs at Garrett's arm.

Garrett lets his arm be taken, and he flips Varric before he's quite processed what's going on, pressing him into the floor with his knee on the dwarf's back. He pauses, then, seeing Varric, processing what's going on, where he is, what's—

"Oh, Maker," he whimpers, releasing the dwarf as he backs up, pressing himself against the wall, into the corner, as small as he can make himself.

Varric twists off the ground, surging up and towards Garrett without pause. "Garrett, it's okay, you're safe, it's okay. Bela, how hurt are you?"

"Maker, he hids like a druck," she groans in a thick voice, sitting up and pressing a hand over her nose. "I'll be fine. Firsd aid kid?"

"No," whimpers Garrett. "no, no, no."

"Bathroom sink. Garrett, it's okay. She's fine. You're fine. Safe at home. It's okay. Garrett, talk to me."

As Isabela slinks off to the bathroom to take care of her face, Garrett shakes his head, shivering. "Dangerous," he mumbles. "Dangerous mage. No. No, please."

"Garrett, stop it. You're fine. It's okay. You had a panic attack and lashed out. We can work on that. Bela will be fine. It'll be okay. I need you to look at me." A pause. "Garrett, I gave you an order." _Please shagua, please..._

"Yes, sir," he whispers, and he looks up at Varric's face — mostly through him, but for a few seconds he focuses, really takes in Varric's worried expression.

"Stay with me, shagua," Varric whispers. "Stay here with me, here in the now. Don't worry about anything else, just look at me. Alright? Right here with me." Moving slowly, he reaches out to cradle Garrett's face with one hand.

"With you," he whispers, and his eyes drift closed as he nestles his cheek into Varric's hand, still shivering.

"That's my mustang. With me. Nice and safe. Just friends here, okay? You're in no danger," Varric whispers. Turning his head to the side, he calls out, "you need me to call help down, Bela? Trusted help?"

"I'm fine," she calls back, wincing as she jerks her nose back into place. _Ow. Maker be damned, that wasn't what I expected._

"Garrett... Garrett, back to me. Eyes here. There we go, good mustang," Varric croons. "Garrett, I need you to stand up. Can you do that for me? Can you stand up and come to the bed with me?"

He makes a small, whimpering noise, one that sounds negative, but a moment later he takes a deep breath and, shaking a little, stands up, clinging to Varric's hands. He lets himself be led to the bed, laying down and bringing his knees to his chest.

"There we go. Nice and safe. Garrett, can you tell me what you're thinking?" Varric asks gently, stroking his hair but avoiding his forehead. With the other hand, he reaches for the latch to the collar, wanting that damn thing off his lover.

As soon as Garrett feels the touch at his neck, he stiffens, tugging away. "No! No, no, please, it's not, I'm not safe, no," he stammers.

"Garrett, it's triggering you, making it worse," Varric counters. "It has to come off."

"No," he whispers. "No magic. No. I'll hurt someone."

"Garrett... do you trust me?" Dangerous words really.

"Yes." The word is said without hesitation, without qualification.

A surge of joy and pleasure that's almost sexual ripples through Varric at that single word but he crushes it down, sets it aside. _Later_. "Then please trust me when I say you won't hurt me. Please. I'll stay right here with you. I'll keep you safe."

"Keep _you_ safe," he whispers, shuddering. "'m dangerous. Wild."

"Words are funny. 'Keep you safe' normally means that you're kept from danger, from threats. But it can also mean that you're being kept in a condition that's safe to be around. Safe for others," Varric says, rambling a bit just to give Garrett words to listen to. "So you see, I was addressing both points with my first statement. You really should be used to me just being right all the time, shagua."

Despite himself, the corners of Garrett's mouth quirk ever so slightly upward. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and nods, lowering his gaze as he submits, allows Varric's fingers to work the latch on his collar.

Varric takes the collar off, then leans into kiss Garrett slowly, eyes never breaking contact with Garrett's. "Mine," he murmurs. "My stubborn, loving mustang."

Garrett kisses him back, a little desperately. "Yours," he breathes.

Varric smiles warmly at him, then shifts around so he's sitting against the headboard of the bed. He pats his lap even as he looks towards the bathroom. "How goes it in there?"

As Garrett crawls into Varric's lap, Isabela makes her way back out. She's wiping the last of the dried blood off her face, and she's sure there's more in her hair, but aside from bruising she's mostly fine. "I've had worse," she admits. "At least he didn't go for the throat. How is he?"

"Fragile. Worried and ashamed," Varris says softly, stroking Garrett's hair. "I can pay for any medical attention you need." He hesitates. "Or... well... Garrett?"

"No," he whispers. "Don't make me cast."

"Hey," says Isabela gently. "It's no big deal. Just a broken nose. It'll heal."

_Maybe in the morning_. "Well, I can at least offer you a room for the night and breakfast. Hells, you can hang around for however long you're in town, unless you have other plans already," he adds, wanting to give her an out if she's not comfortable staying.

"For the night," she agrees. "I can head back to the marina in the morning."

Varric nods. "You... want to sit with us a bit? Is that okay Garrett?"

Garrett nods, and so Isabela sits on the bed, near his feet. "I'm sorry," she says again, quietly. "I can't seem to do much right this evening," she adds, with a self-deprecatory chuckle.

"This wasn't your fault. We should have warned you better about... about what happened, what to avoid," Varric says quietly.

"Still."

"Bad luck on your part is all," Varric insists. "Garrett, how you doing?"

Garrett just whimpers, nestling a little closer to Varric. Garrett stays huddled in his lap for the better part of an hour, until they all decide to retire upstairs; he sleeps in Varric's bed despite sleeping alone most nights, curled up between his dwarf and his mabari. "Collar," he mumbles, as Varric tucks him in, but he doesn't protest again when Varric denies him, insists that he's safe to sleep without it. Nor are there accidents overnight; he sleeps soundly, without so much as a peep of a dream, and wakes feeling keenly embarrassed about the entire thing.

* * *

Just as the mage is fixing Isabela's nose, Varric's message filter catches another encrypted note:

**Justice** : I heard you were alive. I thought for sure — well, it doesn't matter. Can I see you?

_Why all at once?_ Varric rubs his temple slowly, playing the angles on this. "How're you feeling?" he asks, tone distracted in that 'I'm planning mah twisty, clever plans' sort of way.

"Better," the mage offers. "Embarrassed. Steadier."

Varric glances over at him, as if to confirm. "No flare ups with your magic?" he prods, sounding like he's proving a point.

Garrett flinches just a touch. "Not this time," he admits. "Now that I've slept, I'm steadier."

"Really do appreciate the heals, luv," adds Isabela, from her perch on the counter.

_(Need to wipe that— counters are not for sitting dammit— after she's out of the room) The fuck should I do about (Thieving Asshole) Anders? Garrett already knows he's around... (deserves to know regardless). I need to trust him. Question is when and how._ "Good. It occurs to me; I want to start weaning you off the collar but... during scenes at least, well, it's not quite as good, but maybe you should wear it around your thigh instead."

Garrett turns to face Varric. "What? Why? The collar is incredibly useful. Imagine what I'd have done if I wasn't wearing it."

"Because you don't need it," Varric says gently. "You're stronger than that, stronger than your magic."

"Varric, I..." He hesitates, finally putting name to one of his fears: "I was wearing silk in the back of that cop car. It didn't matter."

"I figured you were," he replies softly. "You almost always are. Silk boxers. Silk ties. Silk lined jackets."

"You don't understand," he says, his voice taking on a slightly panicked note. "Healing is difficult; only the best mages can do it at all, unless that's all you study. Self-healing is even harder, takes more focus to push through the pain. Self-healing in response to trauma, like I've learned, is a rare skill. And overloading silk? Pouring enough mana into the silk that it ruptures, and still having enough left to cast through it? To cast healing through it? While there's flames an inch from your skin?"

Varric pauses. "I... hadn't quite realized all of that, but I knew you were strong. You stopped Jowan solid with one spell. No staff, no incantation to help you focus, just a gesture. He was a solid mage so..."

"Power and control," Garrett continues, with the cadence of a memorized saying. "Magic is about two things: power and control. Without power, you're not even a threat, you're just a normal person; you can't ever learn spells if you don't have the innate talent. Without control, you're dangerous."

"Chains don't give control, Garrett."

"All silk and lyrice do is lower your power. Make you safer." He shudders a bit. "Marian's control is legendary. It's the one thing I never stood a chance of winning. When they took me, I figured they finally realized..."

"Forget about Marian," Varric says dismissively. "Stop comparing yourself to her. For once, it's unhealthy. For two, you've already won decisively."

"What?" He stares at Varric, stunned. "Varric... she's on a research trip to _Antarctica_. I'm here, failing out of school."

"Yes, _here_ , in my kitchen after spending the night in my bed," Varric says blandly, gesturing down at him with one hand.

Garrett stares at Varric a moment more before his lips quirk upward. "Alright, granted, I'm a better _lover_ than her, but I'm not a better mage than my twin. I'm the dangerous one. She's the star."

"Sometimes power— sometimes _dangerous_ is what you need," Varric says quietly. "I'd sure as shite rather have you at my side than her in a fight."

"Only until I see a starburst," he says, in a tone of pure disgust. "Then I'm helpless. Or worse, a liability."

"So we work on that," Varric says firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Fears can be conquered. It won't be easy, it won't be simple. It'll be hard and painful. But you won't be alone with it."

Garrett takes a deep breath and nods, once. "Alright. We work on it. I get better at control. I stop being afraid, best I can."

"Right. Together. And with Fenris, your dad, Juanita..." He hesitates, glancing to the side, towards Isabela.

"And others," says Isabela, feeling the urge to speak up even though she knows better. _Is this what feelings are like? Am I catching feelings? Gross._

Garrett's lopsided smile suggests he knows exactly what she's thinking, but he just nods. "Right."

Varric just smiles, not knowing her nearly as well. "And others," he agrees. "We'll figure this out. You'll do fine. Alright? This and everything else, together." _That... sounded kind of... serious. Permanent. Is that..._

Garrett reaches out, taking Varric's hand and placing it on his chest. "My life is yours," he says, quietly, sincerely.

Varric's eyes darken and he leans over Garrett's shoulder. With his other hand, he winds his fingers into his hair and tugs back on the mage's head so he can capture his mouth in a hungry, demanding kiss.

Garrett kisses back, melting against him with a soft moan.

Isabela fiddles with her phone for a few moments, then clears her throat and calls out, "Well, this is fun, but my Uber's here. No need to see me out." She hops off the counter, sauntering toward the front door.

A moment later, her phone buzzes... with a text from Garrett?

**OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : This is actually Varric. Thanks for not getting upset with him last night, at any of the various points you could have done so, with some justification. Get in touch sometime soon, we'll try again (but maybe something different).

**Captain Belladona** : :-* later babe~

**Captain Belladona** : thnx for the good time

Eventually, Varric pulls back from their kissing. "Hey," he says softly, lips curving in a crooked smile.

"Hey," says Garrett, smirking. "I love when you get possessive."

"Then you must lo-" Varric stills.

Garrett reddens a little, glancing away. "Yeah," he says, his voice a bit gruff. "So, anyway, what's on the docket for today."

Varric clears his throat, then moves to the cabinet to get down a glass. Stares at it a moment, then shakes himself slightly before heading for the fridge. _Did that... did he imply..._ "Umm. Plans for today. Well..." he stalls as he sends Fenris a ping to get him to the kitchen. "For one, Fenris has his appointment with my implant guy today. Got some other stuff in the queue but..."

"Oh! About the malfunctioning one? Yeah, that's a great idea," Garrett says, a bit too loudly and too eagerly. _Shit. What's wrong with me today? That got real personal real fast, is all. I didn't mean to..._

"Yeah," Varric echoes, then drains half his glass. Refills it. "It's... kind of nice. That you... feel that way— about how I can be. Not many would," he says awkwardly.

"What? Why not? It's hot as hell." He looks down at his hands, swallowing hard. "I mean— it's not just ownership. You also protect what's yours. You take care of your things. You go above and beyond for them. That's better than most."

"Maybe. But I also, ah, get controlling. Authoritative. Intrusive."

"Hot," he insists.

Fenris stops in the doorway, scowling. "Should I come back or...?"

"No no," Varric says quickly, taking another long swallow of juice. _Wha- oh fuck, this is Fenris's soymilk (tastes like shite). How did I— ugh._ Gagging a little, he tries to go to the sink to dump the rest and rinse the glass without them noticing anything weird. "No, I wanted to go over today's agenda and... a new item."

"Oh goodie," says Fenris, in a dry tone. He eyes Garrett a moment, then moves to lean against the wall just inside the door. "Alright. What is it?"

"...check your inboxes," Varric says as he finishes rinsing the glass.

Garrett pulls out his phone, taking a sharp hiss of breath in as he sees the message.

"No," growls Fenris, instantly.

"Fen. That's—"

"I don't care. You're not seeing him."

"I was expecting this," Garrett insists. "Bela mentioned he's back in town. I'm sure Varric has a plan already."

"Oh it's _entirely_ a trick. Like as not, he needs something again," Varric agrees, heading back to the fridge. _Juice. Juice._

"But we need something from him. Right? Is that the idea? We pull a plan of our own?" presses Garrett.

"Well, I'd like to get my lyrium back if I can," Varric says blandly. "Failing that, his head on a pike." Before Garrett can react, he waves it off. "Figuratively. Jail is fine."

"And reasons. Right? I need to know why he did that. Why he..."

"He's a _mage_ , Garrett, and the worst kind of mage: the kind who thinks he can reshape the world. That's all there is to it."

"The hell is wrong with mages?" Varric demands, eyes narrowing.

"Man wasn't meant to have that much power. It corrupts people. Especially blood mages."

Garrett glances away, looking toward the window, anything to avoid Fenris' face right now. He knows how Fen feels; most days, he's prepared for this. But today it's particularly raw.

Varric growls softly, causing Barkspawn to pad into the kitchen with ears perked. "Power can corrupt, but magic no more or less than anything else. You think you're immune? Can't help but recall you abusing your powers and abilities more than once, Fenris."

"I never said I was," he snaps. "Man wasn't meant to have these implants either."

"Then stop blaming magic for what's simply the nature of mortals. We need checks on us, friends and family willing to call us on our bullshit and excesses. That doesn't mean chains. That doesn't mean hatred and fear."

"I have too much power, but I still can't kill someone with my brain," he snaps. "From across the damn room. I can't take over someone's mind and force them into doing what I want. I can't let demons into the world to destroy a city block."

"Bullshit," Varric snaps. " _I_ can kill someone with my brain and control them too, and my implants aren't designed for offense like yours. Just because you won't doesn't mean you can't. And there's more to you than your implants. You might need more than your brain, but you have a gun. You can kill and enslave with that. Demons? Fuck, no pride demon could hope to do as much damage in a month as a single fully loaded heavy ordinance bomber. Death, torture and enslavement are no better or worse depending on whether it's magic, science, fists or money doing the work."

"Agreed," he says. "But the rest you can take from a man. Nobody's born with the ability to level a city block except mages. We should send them all to Circles at birth, just to ensure they're kept safe and taught right before they can hurt someone."

"Neither are mages! No child has _ever_ shown a hint of that level of power. Damn few adults even get a tenth of that. I get that you're exaggerating out of emotion, but a city block? Don't be absurd. If your Maker was really so against mages, then why are they still being born? No, that's all bullshit. I fully support the idea of supervised schools, freely available— maybe even required— for mages, but there's no reason to kidnap them from their families. You want someone to respect life? To respect the freedoms and happiness of others? Then you sure as shite best allow them some of their own."

"They don't view people like us as _human_ ," he snarls. "We're just toys to them. Playthings on their road to power."

That's all he can take; Garrett turns, sprinting from the room to lock himself in the bathroom, shuddering as he slumps against the inside of the bathroom door.

"Go for a walk," Varric says coldly even as he's racing after Garrett. "Shagua, open the door."

Fenris stares after them, swallowing. _I didn't mean to— Garrett— He's not like other mages. Not like Anders. But..._ He shakes his head, moving to let himself into the back yard. _I need to calm down before I hurt someone._

Garrett rests his head against the door, taking a deep breath, then another. ' _Don't view people like us as human_ ' keeps bouncing around in his mind, over and over, until the image of a sunburst emblazons itself on his closed eyelids. His eyes open; he stumbles forward, bile rising in his throat until he forcibly expels it into the toilet.

As soon as he moves away from the door, Varric yanks it open— locks only work against people that don't have keys for them after all. Kneeling next to Garret, he places a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hey, hey. Let it out. Slow breaths, you're safe." _If I have to, I'll pull Leliana from Internal security. She might miss the games, but she'd do it for (him) this._

Garrett twitches away from him, from his touch, shuddering as his stomach does its best to turn itself inside out. When he can catch his breath, he gasps, "Back, stay back."

"Talk to me," Varric demands, not touching him but not moving away either.

"Stay back," he urges again. "I'm fine," he adds, in a harsh whisper, swallowing.

"Ah yes, clearly. This is just the typical reverse— fuck it, no you're not fine dammit and no I won't be afraid of you," Varric says, unable to finish the joke.

"You should be," he whispers, staring down at the bowl. He takes a deep breath, reaching for some toilet paper to wipe his mouth.

Varric holds out a towel, expression grave. "Are you afraid of me?"

"Sometimes," he whispers.

Varric winces a little. "Oh. Right, well, I did... threaten to kill you that one time," he says awkwardly. "I... I didn't plan on— I told my team to secure you, unharmed but— I wasn't thinking all that... cleanly."

"I deserved it," he says quickly. "What you did, it probably saved my life. But... you can be... terrifying. I don't ever want to be your enemy again."

"I couldn't. Might not even then. Now? No. I could never..." Varric swallows, eyes slipping away.

"...you could. If you had to," he whispers. "That's part of why you're safe. You can do things nobody else can. You can make sure I don't... hurt anyone."

"I would stop you," Varric agrees slowly. "But I'd never give up on you. I'd find a way, even if I have to bitch slap your Maker into creating one."

"Don't," he says softly. "Don't get so... attached, that you let me hurt anyone. Alright? Whatever it takes to stop me. You're so clever, and so willing to go to extremes, I know if there's a way you'll find it."

"No. I will _not_ give up on you," Varric repeats softly, kindly, unrelentingly. "You _are_ mine, Garrett Hawke, my shagua, my willful, caring mustang and I refuse to give up on you. Not ever. I'll preserve your soul, not just your life, but I won't give up."

Garrett takes a deep breath, then another, a shiver running down his spine at the intensity in Varric's words. "Okay," he says quietly, hanging his head. "Okay. I think— I think I want that collar, and then we can talk about Anders."

Varric hesitates, studying Garrett for a long moment. "No," he says quietly. "Brush your teeth, then we're going to curl up together for a bit. We can talk later. He'll wait."

Garrett's shoulders slump, but he doesn't protest. "Yes, sir," he whispers, swallowing again.

* * *

**Justice** : I heard you were alive. I thought for sure — well, it doesn't matter. Can I see you?  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : Same to you. Didn't hear from you for months.  
 **Justice** : Everything went bad so fast, I was sure you were dead.  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : I lived. We have a lot to talk about. When and where?  
 **Justice** : I'm at a hotel. Maybe the park?  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : West entrance, by the picnic tables?  
 **Justice** : Sure. Too late today, you working tomorrow?  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : I can be free at six.  
 **Justice** : Okay. Fen coming with you?  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : Yes  
 **Justice** : Okay. I'll see you both there. I'm not bringing friends, I'll be alone.  
 **OG_Iceman_Cumeth** : You're never alone.  
 **Justice** : I suppose that's true. See you at six.


End file.
